


Debtor's Knell

by SecretEvening



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Action, Angst, Bodyswap, Canon Continuation, Canon's Weird Mix of Dark and Funny and Romantic, Canon-Typical Levels Of Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Content Warning: Ianthe Tridentarius, Dom/sub, F/F, Light Dom/sub, Plot, Post-Harrow the Ninth (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Smut, Sub Gideon Nav, There Are So Many Weird Bodyswap Shenanigans Going On Here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 66,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretEvening/pseuds/SecretEvening
Summary: The Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus is dead. But she might not have to stay that way.Gideon has a plan to bring Harrow back, but as with most of her plans, it isn't long before everything goes sideways. With the two of them stuck sharing Gideon's body, and Harrow's body being held hostage, they find themselves in a desperate race against time to get it back before Harrow's magic absorbs Gideon's soul.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 75
Kudos: 120





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE ON CANON: This fic takes into account everything that happens in Harrow the Ninth... except for the epilogue. There are too many unknown elements there, and it didn't really fit with the story I wanted to tell, so I'm ignoring it. Otherwise, consider this a direct continuation from canon.
> 
> Updates every other Monday.

Is this really how it happens?

Is this really how it ends?

The setting sun is blood red through the haze of fire and smoke. It’s so hot. My senses are dulled, yet still focused, like tunnel vision for my entire being. The pain is immense. At least a few of my ribs must be broken. My cheek is pressed against the ground as I lie slumped on my side. It hurts to breathe — that’ll be the ribs — and my breaths are quick and shallow. The others are still nearby, although I can’t see them; things probably aren’t going our way in that department.

But I can’t bring myself to care about any of it. Because there, lying on the ground, not ten feet away from me, is you. And you’re not looking as peachy keen as I’m feeling. You’re lying on your side, facing away from me. You’re not moving. Blood is pooling around you.

I extend a single hand out above my head, dig my fingertips into the ground, and claw myself forward a few measly inches. My entire body protests. I ignore its complaints, and reach out again. This would be so much easier if I was lying on my stomach, but I think I might pass out if I tried that. I muster myself with a feeble groan of pain, and push myself to my elbows and knees. It’s not good — in fact it fucking sucks — but it’s something. It’s anything.

After a minute or an hour or an eternity, I reach you. I try to kneel behind you, but my legs are too wobbly, and I ended up collapsing over you. I roll you onto your back, trying to hold myself up above you but only really succeeding in lying on top of you.

“Harrow?” I quaver, my voice a pained rasp. You don’t answer. I reach my trembling hands around to cradle your head, trying to lift it up, and oh, oh fuck, there is so much blood. It coats my hands, leaves a sticky puddle on the ground beneath you. I confirm for myself what I already knew.

You’re gone. The impact killed you instantly. I knew from the second I saw it happen, but I guess I convinced myself that I might be wrong, that there was a chance you might have lived. I’ve always been a fool. I clutch your head close to mine so our foreheads are pressed together and squeeze my eyes shut tight. A keening, animalistic noise escapes me, shrill over the dull roar of the flames, and keeps going until my lungs have no air left to sustain it.

It isn’t fair. We were going to have a future. For the first time I can remember, I had something to live for. But that’s not what we get, is it? Our lives are nothing but a string of bad hands from a dealer who rigged the deck, the entire arc of our existence laid out before we were even born by people who never gave a shit about us. Well we’ve reached the end of the arc they prescribed. We’ve lost the game they made the rules to. And in the end, this is all we get.

Fuck that.

I’m not letting them get away with it. I’m not playing by their rules. If this is the only arc we have to follow, then I’m building a fucking new one. I’m building something new for us, my sunset queen, and all I’m asking is that you hang around long enough to see it. I’m not going to say you owe me, but I’m going to heavily imply it, and maybe that’ll guilt you into staying and seeing what I’m going to do. I can’t change how our story began, but I can damn well change how it ends. I’m not letting it end like this.

I kiss you delicately on your forehead. My eyes are still closed. I wonder if the blood in my mouth left an imprint on you, like a lipstick mark. I hope that it did. It’s a hollow gesture of comfort, but I make it nonetheless. Maybe it’s more for me than for you. I’m going to need it.

I take a deep breath. It’s far more steady and calm than it has any right to be.

I open my eyes.

* * *

I walked back from the brink of death with a slow, graceless stumble. I was sure that I had died for real that time. That I had drowned in a river that wasn’t even real, wearing a body that wasn’t even mine, alongside a person I didn’t even know. I’m glad it didn’t happen that way. That was a pretty shit way to die.

Reality trickled into my brain, painful and viscous. I wasn’t consciously aware of opening my eyes, but vision resolved itself from the blackness. Pain wracked through my chest. I was… I was coughing? Oh, yes, I was coughing — great, wrenching coughs, and there was a phantom sensation of fluid being violently ejected from my lungs, because even if the River isn’t real water, it’s difficult to stop your body from freaking out when it thinks its drowning. My mind and my soul and your body slid protestingly back into sync.

Half of my face was pressed against the ground, and some kind of soft, ashy sand was getting in my mouth. I was lying on my stomach, limbs sprawled out in all kinds of fun directions. My body still heaved with painful wheezing, but it began to abate. I groaned and tried to spit some of the sand out. It didn’t work. A little puddle of drool wetted the sand next to my mouth. I rolled onto my back.

The sky was dismally grey, and yet somehow still irritatingly bright. I hated looking at it. I sat up, then hauled myself to my feet with a body that protested every second I asked its muscles to move. My mind dizzily oriented itself without being especially committed to the task.

A rocky outcrop just behind me was the only thing that disrupted the featureless wasteland. Vast dunes rolled lazily towards the horizon in every direction. Every single part of that desolate world was grey. The sky was a pale, hazy grey, the sand was a dull slate grey, the rocks were a dark, almost charcoal grey. It was really fucking grey, is what I’m trying to convey here. Eddies of wind carried particles of ashen sand through the air in little swirls. There was nothing — no one walking by, no ships overhead, no sign of civilization in the distance. I was alone.

Everything hit me all at once.

You were gone. You hadn’t come back. I was pretty sure you weren’t dead — I could still feel your presence in there somewhere — but you weren’t alive either. I knew from what the other lyctors said that you weren’t down there fighting the big planet beastie. No, I had no illusions that you were on your way back. Nor could I _get_ you back; what could I possibly have done? I’d have fought anybody I needed to fight to keep you alive, but that spirit stuff was beyond me. There was nothing I could do to coax you back, or wake you up, or whatever needed to happen to get you out of there.

There was nothing I could do. There was no path forward. I was by myself, in a body that wasn’t mine, on a world that I had no way to escape. You were functionally dead, and pretty soon I would be actually, permanently dead. I had failed you.

I’d like to say that that’s when I rallied. That I stood tall and refused to stop fighting. But it wouldn’t be true. What actually happened was this: I gave up. I trudged over to that big rock sticking out of the ground, I sat down, and I leaned back against it. I saw my two-hander lying half-buried beside me, and I placed it flat across my lap. I closed my eyes. I felt the single massive ache that your body had become. And I slept.

It might seem ridiculous, given where I was, but it’s true. I was so goddamn exhausted, Harrow. You barely ever slept. You hardly ever ate. You had apparently never heard the word cardio in your entire life. All of that negligence got dropped on my head, and I was exhausted. I was exhausted of fighting for air the whole time you kept me shoved under the surface of your mind. I was exhausted of watching you get stabbed and manipulated and humiliated. I was exhausted of watching you deliberately spit on every single thing I ever did for you, one by one.

Perhaps I would die there. I did not, in fact, die there, because your body was literally incapable of dying that way, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. I don’t know how long I slept. The sky was unchanged when I awoke, just as bright and depressing as before. But as I blinked myself back into half-consciousness, I saw something.

There was a figure, standing atop one of those massive dunes. It was close enough that I could tell it was moving towards me, but not close enough that I could tell who it was.

So I waited. I sat there, uncaring, as the gaunt form of Gideon the First — or Pyrrha Dve, I suppose — resolved itself from the haze.

She had one of those stupid-looking white cloaks that you all carried, but now hers was tied around her neck like a scarf and pulled up into a makeshift mask to keep out the swirling sand. As she came to a halt in front of me, she pulled it down so her mouth was visible.

“She’s dead then?”

A manic, hysterical laugh burst from my lips. “No, no, Harrowhark Nonagesimus would never do something so mundane as to _die._ That would involve facing a consequence for once in her life. No, she’s fucked off and left us to clean up after her.”

Pyrrha nodded and looked off to the side. She squinted up at the sky, and took a deep breath. She cracked her neck, and then looked back at me and gestured with her head. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“Go? Where the fuck are we supposed to go? Hell, how did we even get here?”

“Friend of yours pulled us out of the River. This was the closest planet. Got you out, went back for me. Didn’t surface in exactly the same spot. We split up to look for you; should be meeting up with them again in a few hours.”

“What friend?”

Pyrrha hesitated. “It’s complicated. They’ll explain.”

“No, I don’t think they will,” I said. Pyrrha simply stared at me. “I’m not doing this anymore. I’m done. I’m tapping out.”

“That isn’t how this works.”

“It works however I damn well want it to work! I’ve had enough. I’ve done my part, I’ve paid my dues, and I’m not going to put up with this shit anymore.” The bitterness flowed from my lips like poison. I had been scooped out and left hollow on the inside. I was tired. And if I’m being honest, I was really, really fucking pissed at you. That was a big part of it.

But Pyrrha wasn’t having it. “I don’t have time for your self-pity. Let’s go.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, sounding more than a little bit like a child having a temper tantrum, but too angry to be self-conscious about it, “just because you’ve forgotten what being a human being is like doesn’t mean that I’ve done the same. You have no idea how much I’ve lost.”

Something flashed in her eyes. She grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and hefted me into the air with one hand. My sword fell to the ground. My shirt slid halfway up my chest and I dangled from it, kicking my legs impotently. I looked like a toddler being bullied by a thirty year old man.

“Don’t speak to me of loss,” she warned, and for the first time, I heard genuine anger in that flat, monotone voice, “you have no idea what that word means. If I don’t get to tap out, then neither do you. Now _let_ _’s go.”_

She hefted me forwards and I landed running, arms pinwheeling and legs frantically trying to keep the momentum from sending me sprawling right onto my face again. I came to a stop, breathing a lot harder than I’d like to confess. Pyrrha walked past me, and as she did, she pressed my two-hander against my chest. I fumblingly grabbed it, and watched her walk away. She did not turn around to see if I was following her.

I followed her.

* * *

I quickly discovered that Pyrrha Dve took after her necromancer; she was not much for conversation — not that I was making much of an attempt myself. I was still feeling a bit rebellious and pissed off about the whole thing, and I decided that I didn’t give a shit, and I wouldn’t ask what was going on. But let me tell you, there was not much going on on that barren planet, and I have an extremely low tolerance for boredom.

We trudged over the endless dunes. The sand shifted and sunk beneath our feet, making each step take just enough effort to be irritating. I wasn’t even sure I should be calling it sand. It felt a lot like it, but it was softer, and the particles were bigger, forming little flakes of grey. I almost wanted to call it ash, or some kind of extremely odd snow, but the edges of the flakes were weirdly sharp, and they gave it that same unpleasant grit that sand has. You can probably tell how thoroughly boring that journey was by the fact that I was diving so deep into the taxonomy of _sand._

Eventually, the boredom got to me, and I cracked. “Does being in his body feel as weird for you as this does for me?”

“No.”

I waited to see if she would say anything else. We crested a dune, and the sand beneath my feet slid worryingly as we began our steep descent, making me stumble and wave my arms about frantically to keep my balance. When she failed to elaborate, I continued, “Not much of a talker, are you?”

She didn’t deign to respond to that. After we reached the nadir of the gap between two dunes, we began our ascent up a truly massive one, the biggest anywhere nearby. My breath grew heavy as I hiked up that slope in a body that had never gone for a jog in its life. I was pouring sweat. At least that shitty planet had the decency to be chilly, so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Pyrrha looked at me, and I couldn’t quite parse her expression. Consideration, maybe? Or maybe she was just pitying the miserable state of my current form. It was hard to tell. It made me antsy, so I searched for something to say. I had a lot of options — a lot of shit had happened to us since I first woke up in your body. There were a lot of very good, pertinent questions I could have asked, like: Did the Emperor die? What happened to the Resurrection Beast? How did you become Gideon’s cavalier without dying? Did you really bang my mom? I did not ask those questions.

My mind kept returning to one thing — to your constant companion, that beautiful face that haunted you. Yes, Harrow, I could see the Body too, all those long months under the surface of your mind. I couldn’t tell if it was a spirit or a delusion, but what you saw, I saw. So instead of asking one of the plethora of more immediately relevant questions, I asked,

“Why were your buddies so scared of Alecto?” Nobody told me that the Body was Alecto, but I’m not stupid, as much as you might like to argue the contrary, and I could figure that much out on my own. Maybe I wanted to learn a little bit about your girlfriend, alright? I wasn’t jealous, I just wanted to know.

Pyrrha’s face remained impassive, and for moment I thought she was going to keep ignoring me. At length, she spoke, "John never told me what she was — only Augustine and Mercymorn knew. I know she was volatile. Gentle most of the time, but her anger was… explosive. They were terrified of her.”

“Were you?” A strange expression crossed her face — not quite a smile, but something amused and self-satisfied nonetheless.

“No.”

It was weird listening to her talk. She had her necromancer’s taciturn demeanor, but it wasn’t the same. The way he spoke was always flat and monotone. Her words, on the other hand, had the slightest hint of inflection to them. There was more emotion there, even if it was subtle and muted. The slight searching hesitation before the word ‘volatile.’ The glimpse of anger she directed at me earlier. It wasn’t much, but it was more than you ever got from him.

There was a long silence as we made our way up the steep surface of that dune, me panting and wheezing, her looking completely unbothered. The silence weirded me out, and because I am a little shit, I asked her the other question I couldn’t stop pondering.

“So… which one of you was it that Harrow caught fucking Cytherea’s corpse? Was it you, or Gideon?”

Pyrrha didn’t even look at me. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Only when it’s funny.”

We crested the top of the mountainous dune, and the landscape opened up before us. The rolling hills transitioned into a vast flatland interspersed with massive rocks skewed at violent angles. They formed scattered piles that jutted out of the landscape like thorns. Pyrrha pointed to our destination — one particular outcropping where one of those spikes collapsed and broke into three segments, creating a semicircle that formed a large, sheltered clearing in the middle. But that wasn’t what drew my attention. What drew my attention was the sandstorm.

It loomed on the horizon, a huge wall of billowing ash ripping across the flat landscape ahead of us. It moved frighteningly fast. I’d never been in a sandstorm before, but I had a feeling that the sharp texture of the ash would not be kind to us at those speeds. My mind tore through our options. Shelter behind the dune? Unlikely to work, the dune was _made_ of sand, it would get swept up in the storm. Retreat to the little sheltered rock pile I woke up beside? Too far back, we’d never make it in time.

Pyrrha and I didn’t even have to look at one another to confirm our plan. We started moving simultaneously, tearing down the far side of the dune at a breakneck pace, sprinting towards the semicircle shelter of rock. It was an incredibly stupid decision to make, and I regretted it immediately. Sand avalanched down the slope with us, our feet destabilizing great drifts of ash. Balance was impossible, and it wasn’t long before I toppled, tumbling head over heels down that surprisingly precipitous incline. My world was a greyscale swirl. I’d have thought that the loose, soft surface beneath me would cushion some of the impact, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like it, and a particularly brutal landing on my back forced the air from my lungs. I gasped for breath and inhaled sand, prompting my lungs to frantically attempt to cough without any air to expel.

I sprawled out onto my stomach as the slope began to even out, and Pyrrha grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet without a pause. She, of course, had not fallen, and she rocketed ahead of me as I struggled to find my feet. My sword was in her other hand. I felt a ripping pain as the glassy sand tore up the inside of my lungs, and then a viscerally uncomfortable fleshy sensation as they knitted themselves whole again. I stumbled forward fully doubled over and coughed up cancerous gobs of blood and grit.

The storm loomed closer. God, it was fucking _fast._ It’s not like we had weather, growing up on the Ninth, I had no idea it could look like this. I heaved a rasping breath and resumed sprinting. We were on flatter ground now, and the wind was picking up, heralding the storm to come. I gritted my teeth and tore into it, feeling it whip your annoyingly long hair behind you. We were getting close now, the rocks growing larger and larger before us, but so was the wall. I tried so hard to move faster, but I couldn’t make your body do something it wasn’t capable of.

In the distance I saw a shape moving through the air parallel to the storm — a ship, and from the looks of it the pilot must have been absolutely gunning it, slicing through the air at speeds that in-atmo engines don’t usually try to push.

Pyrrha reached the rocks first, and I followed not far behind. It wasn’t a perfect shelter — the huge slabs of collapsed rock had gaps between them where the wind could come through, and the stray boulders littering the ground weren’t packed tightly enough to form an enclosure — but it would have to be enough. I frantically searched for the safest spot to hunker down. I followed Pyrrha, and ducked behind the densest cluster of boulders, yanking my shirt over my mouth as the storm hit us like a sledgehammer.

The whole world went dark in seconds. I couldn’t see the sky. The wind was screaming. The buffer of rock diminished the full force of the ash, but it couldn’t stop it, swirling around the sides in hostile gusts that stung like chips of glass. I realized too late that I needed to close my eyes, and a whirl of ash caught me right in the face. I slammed my eyes shut, and felt a trickle of blood ooze down my face. The storm called into sharp relief the fact that this was not _sand._ That was simply the best word I could find to describe it, but sand could not cut like this. Dozens of tiny tears bloomed across my skin before my healing wilted them.

A noise, barely audible above the keening howl. Engines. A rumbling whine that started strong, then stuttered, and gasped, and cut out entirely. A loud thunk of metal as something heavy slammed into the ground. I couldn’t tell where the ship was, only that it was close. We needed to move fast. I grabbed Pyrrha by the arm, and I opened my eyes. There was a light over to our side, just barely piercing through the shroud. I sprinted towards it, guiding Pyrrha blindly behind me as my eyes filled with blood. A shouting voice resolved from the gale as we got closer, but I couldn’t discern what it was saying. Three more steps, each digging into the sand beneath me, and then the fourth landed on solid metal.

I stumbled to the top of the ship’s entrance ramp, and proceeded to immediately collapse, curling up on my side and clutching my face, keening in pain. A pneumatic hiss sounded from behind me as the ramp closed. Pyrrha dropped my sword, and it clattered loudly to the floor.

“Dammit Pyrrha, I _told_ you it was a bad idea to split up our search!” I knew that voice. My eyes became eyes once again, and I resisted the urge to vomit. I blinked my vision back into existence and rolled over to face Camilla Hect.

She looked exactly the same as I remembered her — boring gray clothes, hair cut into a short, practical bob, hands moving with quick, efficient purpose. The sight of her, looking totally unchanged, calmed something within me.

“Cam,” I croaked by way of greeting. I meant to sound happy to see her, but my vocal chords weren’t really on board with that plan at the moment. She ignored me, huddled over Pyrrha, who was in abysmal shape.

Her whole body was cut all to hell, and the sharp grit had torn thousands of tiny little cuts across every single inch of exposed skin. The oozing wounds left her clothes spotted with blood all over. Cam pulled the cloak away from Pyrrha’s face to assess the damage, and Pyrrha’s lips were pulled thin and tight with pain. I waited for her wounds to close, for her body to miraculously heal itself as mine did.

It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t going to happen. Pyrrha was not a lyctor anymore, and her wounds stayed stubbornly in place.

Camilla placed a hand on Pyrrha’s face, and I watched as the myriad of cuts began to stitch themselves up. It wasn’t fast or automatic like my healing was; it was thoughtful and deliberate, wounds getting sealed up only a handful at a time. I might not have known Camilla Hect for very long, but I knew that she was no necromancer, and I knew for sure that she couldn’t do _that._ I looked closer. Camilla’s eyes were not the wintry, pale brown they used to be. Or, at least, one of them wasn’t. One eye was the color it should be, but the other was a clear, deep grey. The color of Palamedes’ eyes.

I watched her — him? — work, every movement deliberate, every glance intensely focused. I had so many questions, but the air was so thick with her concentration that I didn’t dare speak.

I took a moment to orient myself. I expected to see the same shuttle that Camilla, Coronabeth, and Judith had been on the last time you came across them, but this was a different ship. Less horrifically cramped, for one thing. It bore some resemblance to the other shuttle in its design — all plain, heat-treated metal, boxy and utilitarian, without any of the adornment typical of the Empire’s fleet.

We were in the middle of an open, central room with a few crated piled up in one corner, and a plex screen on one wall with a panel of buttons and dials beneath it. There were three closed doors leading to other rooms, one on each side, the fourth side holding the shuttle’s entrance ramp. The only decorations were two framed photographs on either side of the door opposite the ramp. One I recognized as the same red-haired woman whose picture was in the tiny shuttle Camilla was in before. The other was of a bald man with brown skin and a bitchin’ salt and pepper beard.

I glanced over at Camilla. She was still deep in concentration, so I stood up and walked over to the portrait of the woman. There was a small inscription set onto the bottom of the frame, and it said only one word.

_Awake_

It sucked the breath out of my lungs. That was her. That was my mom. It never occurred to me that I didn’t actually know what she looked like. But there she was. Her face was cold and callous, her face creased not with laugh-lines but with the etchings of a lifetime of anger. Even when posing for a picture, her face was set into a vague scowl. I could see some of myself in her — the shape of my nose, my hair, my broad shoulders — but less than I expected to. I stared at her for a minute, trying to decide how I should feel about this. I listened to the dull roar of the sandstorm relentlessly pelting the shuttle. I did not find an answer. Eventually I wrenched my eyes away and looked towards the other photograph. It had an inscription just like the other one.

_Light_

The man — given the context I assumed that he must be Wake’s successor — had a much softer face than my mom. His beard was short, and I could see from the stubble on his head that his hair was shaved, not just bald. He gave off an impression of calm, but his deep brown eyes looked right through me, perceptive and calculating.

I heard movement from behind me, and I turned to see Camilla stepping back and holding out her hand to help Pyrrha to her feet. Pyrrha’s clothes were still bloodied and disgusting, but her skin was no longer a mess. Camilla appraised her handiwork and Pyrrha nodded gratefully.

“Palamedes?” I finally ventured to ask. Whoever it was turned to face me.

“More or less, yes. It’s good to see you, Ninth.” The cadence was definitely Camilla’s, clipped and curt, but the warmth in their tone was distinctly Palamedes.

“But Camilla — “

“I _am_ Camilla.”

“I — what? Which one of you am I even talking to right now?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t a straightforward answer to that question, Nav. I’m not sure that one can distinguish between Camilla and Palamedes anymore. There’s just… me.”

I didn’t know where to go from there. I could see what they meant, even just looking at them. They had Camilla’s tense alertness, that impression of being coiled like a spring, ready to leap into action at the slightest whisper of danger, but they also had Palamedes’s intent focus, their eyes curious and contemplative. It was Camilla’s body, sure, but there was so much of him in there, in their posture, their fidgeting, the sound of their voice, the look in their eyes. So many little details that were so distinctly not Camilla.

It felt like I was looking at the end of a story without knowing the middle. There were too many things I needed to get caught up on. But if there was one thing I always appreciated about Camilla Hect, it was that she liked to get straight to the point.

“Coronabeth?”

“In the Dominicus system. Surveilling the movements of Blood of Eden’s operatives in the area.”

“Judith?”

“Back in the Cohort, and very graciously _not_ letting anybody know about us, in exchange for Coronabeth’s intel.”

“What happened with Blood of Eden?”

“Our original plan relied on Harrowhark. When it became clear that she wasn’t in play anymore, we had to scrap it. Without that agreement making us work together, our relationship with the Commander… deteriorated, suffice to say.”

“You figured out how to be a lyctor without offing your cavalier?”

“Yes and no. I know how to do it, but I’m not certain it will work, and that’s not what I am. True lyctorhood requires both people to be in their original bodies, and that was no longer an option for me. The form I have achieved is… limited. I’ll never have the power of a full lyctor, but I’m still far beyond any normal human.”

I nodded, trying to absorb everything at once. I was formulating my next question when Camilla and/or Palamedes kept going,

“Alright, it’s my turn now. Before we went looking for you, Pyrrha filled me in on everything that happened, but Gideon, where is the Reverend Daughter? Where is Harrowhark?”

“Look Sextus, do you think I have any goddamn idea how this shit works? I’m not a necromancer. I have no idea where she is. She’s just gone. She’s not coming back.”

“Dead?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

I shrugged, “I just do. Trust me, if Harrow was dead, I’d know it. No. She’s still here, I can feel her inside me.” There was a pause. Camilla looked at me with an air of resigned expectation. “Look, don’t even get me started, we’d be here all day. But I want you all to appreciate that I am exercising an impressive amount of restraint right now.”

They ignored me, and continued, “If she hasn’t surfaced, and she’s not dead, then there’s only a few other options to consider. Given our last conversation, I think the most likely possibility is that she has created a bubble within the River; a liminal space that is anchored to her body, allowing her to remain attached to her physical form without needing to occupy it.”

“Why would she do that?” I asked. The glare that was sent my way was distinctly Camilla’s, visible in the sheer weight of the implied ‘Are you slow?’ radiating out of it. “What?”

“I think we can safely assume that she will refuse to return until her body is vacated,” Palamedes said, “but luckily, we have the ability to vacate it.”

“Uh, I don’t mean to burst your bubble — pun absolutely intended — but unless I’m miscounting, I think we’re short at least one body.” They didn’t respond, but when I looked at them, there was a glint in their eye that spoke louder than words. “Oh shit. Oh shit you have it, you have my body. Okay, fuck, yes, show me, show me now.”

* * *

Looking at your own body from the outside is an experience I really cannot recommend to anyone. I’d seen myself in mirrors before, I knew what I looked like, and yet the experience was entirely different. I felt suddenly hyperaware of every little thing I didn’t like about being in your body. Not to belabor the point Harrow, but it was a long list.

My body lay peacefully on a tiny cot in the shuttle’s crew quarters — a narrow, cramped little room with four identical beds arranged in a row along one wall. I approached it tentatively, and as I got close, reached out with one hand. My fingers brushed over my body’s cheek. I almost expected it to feel cold and dead, but it was perfectly warm. There was no decay — presumably some kind of preservation magic was at play. My hand trailed down to rest on one bicep.

“When Blood of Eden rescued us from Canaan house, we were able to negotiate with them to bring — “

“Shh shh shh,” I cut them off, “give me a minute. I need to appreciate how good I look.” Camilla sighed wearily. “Don’t you judge me, I’ve spent the last nine months stuck in Harrow’s shitty, malnourished body. I deserve this.”

The others waited impatiently as I made good on my word and spent a good long while just staring at my body.

Eventually, Palamedes interrupted. “A very touching reunion, Nav, but we really do need to hurry.”

I paused. “Why?”

“If my theory about her whereabouts is correct, then her time is limited. It took me years to figure out how to create the bubble I stayed in. The Reverend Daughter had to do it on the fly, with zero preparation, using theorems she’d never employed before, from a school of necromancy that is not her specialty. It is extremely unlikely that the bubble she created is stable enough to last as long as mine did. If we do nothing, we might lose her, and we have no way of telling how soon that might happen.”

“What would I need to do?”

“The process is by no means simple, but most of that complexity is on my end. I’ll lay your bodies out side by side, and paint blood wards around them. Then I’ll induce your soul to leave your body. The wards will create a channel of sorts for your soul to follow, and keep out roaming spirits while your bodies are empty. Once you are back in your body, the Reverend Daughter should be able to sense that her body is vacant, and return.”

“Should?”

“This isn’t exactly something I’ve attempted before, Nav. Nothing is guaranteed. If all goes well, this will create a temporary barrier between your souls, to prevent her from immediately absorbing you. It won’t last more than a few days, but that’s long enough for Nonagesimus to finish the process.”

“And then we’ll be a lyctor — a true lyctor.”

“You will be immortal. Your souls will be bound together for the rest of eternity.”

I didn’t answer right away. I had been so caught up in the mechanics of everything that I had forgotten about that part. It was a much easier decision to make the first time around. I died, and then I didn’t have to deal with the consequences anymore; or at least that was how it was supposed to go. But this… this was it. If I did this, there would be no tapping out, not anymore.

Can you blame me for having doubts? The two of us did not get along — over the course of entire lives, we were in sync for approximately one day, and then I died, and you spent the next nine months setting what little trust we had built on fire. I didn’t know if we could do it. I couldn’t imagine it. Maybe if they had asked me back at Canaan house, after you confessed your secrets to me, I would have said yes.

My reticence must have been visible on my face. “Nav,” one of the Sixth pair warned, “don’t tell me you’re seriously considering not doing it.” When I did not respond, they grew increasingly agitated. “Goddammit Nav, you have to do this. I know the two of you have had your disagreements in the past, but you can’t just leave her to die.”

Still I did not respond, nor did I look at them. I stared at my body, but I was not seeing it, not really. My vision was distant and unfocused as I sat within my thoughts.

“Are you not her cavalier?” they demanded, “Did you not swear an oath to her? One flesh, one end; this was part of the deal, Nav!”

Finally I looked up. But not at them. I couldn’t have told you why, but I looked at Pyrrha. She was standing quietly near the door, watching this entire exchange without comment.

“And what about you?” I softly asked, “Are you not going to tell me to do it?”

Camilla and Palamedes turned to face her. “Yes, please, Pyrrha.”

She did not move, and the expression on her face did not change.

“It’s her decision to make,” Pyrrha said at length. Palamedes opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and instead put his face in his palm and sighed. I ignored him.

“How long has it been since you died?” I asked her.

“Nine thousand five hundred and seventy three years.”

For once I felt like my stare was unwavering enough to match hers. “And was it worth it?”

That finally pulled a reaction from her. She blinked, and looked off to the side. I was surprised by the genuine consideration she seemed to put into it. It took her a full minute to respond, and when she spoke, she looked directly at me.

“No.”

I let out a heavy breath and stared at my feet. I thought about every way you had ever pissed me off. I thought about years of torment. I thought about nine months spent gasping for air. I thought about the empty, broken look on your face when you confessed to me the guilt of your own existence. I thought about my mother screaming her killer’s name, her lover’s name.

I considered the facts, considered everything Palamedes told me about how this worked. A temporary barrier, to keep you from finishing the job the old fashioned way before you could do it the fancy way. Those would be my only two options — an eternity together, or death. I came to a decision.

“It must be peaceful, being in a bubble. Just… sheltered from the world. Being able to rest. I bet this is the most content she’s been in her entire life.”

“Nav… “ Palamedes warned. I cracked my knuckles, then my neck. I turned to face him.

“Alright then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go ruin her whole fucking day.”

* * *

In a remote region of the galaxy, on a space station that circled no star, Ianthe Tridentarius returned to her body the way a brick might return to the ground after being dropped from orbit. Her entire body felt like a single continuous wound. Like a bruise that went down to each one of her bones. She struggled to breathe. Her vision was dark and blurry, her ears ringing. She was surrounded by corpses. The insectile Heralds were strewn across the floor in great swathes, their guts spilling out all over the place. The sight of them no longer held any fear for her.

It was dead.

It was dead.

The Beast had no body. It was a mass of seventy violently blue eyes, each of them bigger than the Mithraeum itself. Rather than a pupil, the center of each eye was a gaping mouth. Out of each mouth came seventy tongues, each comprised of seventy long arms with seventy joints. Each hand had seventy fingers, and in each palm was another mouth with seventy teeth in a ring, like a lamprey. The mouths did not eat flesh or blood, for those things did not truly exist in the River. Instead they ate away at her soul, until she wasn’t sure how much of one she had left.

And she felled every single one. She slayed it. She watched as the equally monstrous stoma devoured it whole. It had tried to run when they were forced to surface, and she had expected it to escape while the Necrolord’s saints had their little spat. But those ghosts, those three cavaliers, had pinned in down long enough for her to catch up and finish the job. She wasn’t sure what happened to them, in the end.

She wasn’t sure what was going to happen to her, either. It felt like she was dying. The pain was not receding, her healing was not kicking in. It had taken that from her too, and she did not know if she would get it back. She had barely been able to use necromancy at all by the end of it. The world was far away and dull, dwarfed by the emptiness, by the void it left inside her. Never in her life had she felt so alone.

Noises. A voice. Probably Teacher’s. She could make out what he was saying, but comprehension was beyond her.

“Ianthe! Ianthe hold on!” The world lit up white and she felt necromancy course through her as he tried to heal her. The wound resisted. It twisted and writhed inside her and she screamed, unable to make sense of anything through the agony. The flow of thanergy halted and the writhing stopped with it. “Dammit!”

Teacher’s hands fretted above her, trying to avoid hurting her even more by touching her. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted anyone to touch her. He was not high on her list, but he was somebody, somebody other than the knawing emptiness. That was where the pain came from; the physical wounds were both immense and inconsequential. The Beast had planted a black hole in the center of her being, and it ate her alive with each passing second.

He placed a single hand on her upper arm. It was not enough, but it was something. The world was far away, but that touch was a lighthouse in the dark. She strained to take in shallow, choked breaths. She chased the light, held it tight, until it burned her hand.

As she blacked out, only one thought filled her head; was this man really going to be her only companion for the rest of eternity? Maybe she would die, and it wouldn’t matter anymore. She closed her eyes, and let the darkness decide the answer.


	2. The Bargain is Struck

Waking up in my own body was the exact opposite of my experience waking up in your body. It was like waking up after a long, peaceful nap. I stretched the stiffness from my limbs and groaned contentedly at the feeling of my muscles warming up. I sat up, blinking my eyes clear and looking around.

Your body laid peacefully a few feet beside me, still under, as Palamedes told me it probably would be. My sword sat right by your side, where I left it. I expected your body to look like mine had from the outside — perfectly still, as if frozen in the moment of death. But you weren’t a motionless shell, you were breathing, slow and steady. It had never occurred to me that a body could still be alive without a soul in it, its involuntary processes chugging along without a pilot. You looked calm, but not in the way my body had. You didn’t look peaceful — hell, I couldn’t even imagine you looking like that. Yours was not the serene calm of repose; it was the calm before the storm, the bated breath, the silent moment of anticipation between the lightning and the thunder. Despite everything, I was eager to bring hell with you again.

Footsteps clanked against the metal of the shuttle, and Camilla walked up the ship’s entrance ramp. The ramp was lowered, revealing pale sunlight from outside, the sandstorm apparently having passed while I was out. My throat was dry and scratchy, uninterested in my desire to greet her, and I noisily cleared it. Camilla squatted down on her haunches right in front of me, roughly grabbed my face with one hand, and used the other to push open my eyelid, looking for… something.

“Hey, cut that out!” I shrugged out of her grip, and oh, wow, my voice sounded like shit. Camilla continued onward in her investigation unfazed, grabbing my wrist and then pulling her knife out of its sheath and slitting a tiny cut on my forearm. “Ow! What the fuck?” I protested, but the cut immediately sealed itself back up. Camilla nodded, satisfied, and sheathed her knife again.

“It’s good to have you back, Ninth.”

I cleared my throat once more with feeling, “Thanks Cam. Err, Pal? I have no idea what to call you.”

They stood up and offered me a hand, which I took, letting them help me to my feet. My legs wobbled, my muscles still remembering how to move. They put a hand on my arm to stabilize me.

“I’m not sure either. I haven’t… I’ve been on my own for a while.”

“Well you should figure that out, because if you don’t, I’m going to start nicknaming you, and while that will be very fun for me, I doubt it will be for you.” My head was already running through ideas. Campal snorted and shook their head.

“I’ll get right on that,” Hectus said. I looked outside again. It appeared calm, the sand lying still without any wind to disturb it. I had no idea how long a storm like that would take to pass.

“How long was I out?”

“Six hours, give or take.”

“Six hours? Holy shit, Pamilla, you didn’t tell me it would take _that_ long.”

“If you call me that again I’m going to break your legs.” If they were still in Palamedes’s body I might have laughed at them, but they were in Camilla’s body, and I was kinda scared of Camilla, so I didn’t.

Another set of footsteps announced Pyrrha’s arrival from outside.

“What’s the prognosis?” Sext asked. Pyrrha held up a metal part I could not identify.

“I’m going to scrounge for a replacement.”

“Alright, we’ll work on the other side. Come with me Nav.”

I followed them outside into the dismal sunlight. The landscape around us was truly vast — more than I had been able to appreciate when I was outrunning the storm. Up close, I could appreciate the massive size of the collapsed spire of rock beside us. The flatlands stretched to the horizon, with the dunes forming a solid wall behind us. The ship was an insignificant speck on that grandiose canvas. But it was a rather important speck, since it was pretty crucial to the whole ‘not dying’ plan.

We circled around to the side of the ship and Pect stood directly beneath the bulky thruster, which they had oriented vertically to face the ground during their descent. They stared up into it, and I peered up as well. I reached up a hand and tentatively spun the ring mechanism near the bottom. This dislodged a stream of sand directly onto my face.

“Fuck!” I stepped back and tried to brush it off, spitting grains of ash out of my mouth. When I opened my eyes again I saw Hex glaring at me. They maintained eye contact, spat sand from their mouth exactly once, and then brushed some more out of their hair with one hand.

“New rule: do not touch anything unless I tell you to do so.”

I saluted crisply, “You got it, boss.”

They squinted and gave me one last warning glare before turning back to the thruster. It took only a few seconds for them to settle back into that intently focused look that was just so distinctly Palamedes. They examined machinery that I could not see — I was giving that thing a wide berth — and fiddled with electronics, prompting a crackling noise that made them wince and pull their hand back, shaking it to dispel the pain.

After a few more minutes of tinkering and a few more trickles of sand to the face, they stepped back and pursed their lips with a sigh. “This is not going to be an easy fix. The ash has clogged the entire system, and shredded a good bit of the electronics.”

“How long are we talking?”

“At least two days. But that’s assuming we can do it at all. If some of these parts are completely destroyed, we might not be able to replace them.”

“Well… shit.”

They grimaced, “That about sums it up, yes. I’d love to see the look on the Commander’s face when he finds out that I destroyed _another_ one of his ships. This would make… four?”

“Is he the guy in that picture in the shuttle?”

“Yes. Commander Light,” they said. I walked over to the side of the ship, leaning back against it and crossing my arms over my chest.

“Is his name secretly super long and ridiculous too?”

Camlamatus reached their hand up to their nose, instinctively trying to adjust a pair of glasses they weren’t actually wearing. “I believe so, although he never told me his full name. I’m so curious about the origins of that tradition, I never got a chance to ask him. They’re always three part names, but I’m still not certain what the rules behind it are.”

I hummed my acknowledgment. We were quiet for a while as they continued to fiddle with the interior of the thruster, which made some truly worrying grinding noises as they moved things around in there.

I tried to picture the guy in that photo in charge of an army, facing the full might of the Nine Houses. It seemed impossible. It made more sense when I imagined my mother there. No matter how outmatched she might have been, I could imagine her standing up against it. She was pure intensity. But even then, I couldn’t imagine her _winning._ Growing up, I wanted to learn everything I could about the Cohort. I knew exactly how gargantuan its armies were, how devastating its weapons were. Where did her conviction come from? There was so little I knew about her, and now she was dead, and I would never get a chance to learn. I mean, I could certainly imagine why she might want the Emperor dead, the guy’s a fucking prick, but still.

“Why did you go with them?”

They extricated themself from the interior of the thruster, their hair looking distinctly more dusty than before. They stared straight ahead, away from me, hands still resting on either side of the thruster’s lower rim above them.

“How did the Nine Houses die?”

That caught me off guard. I stood up a little straighter. “Disaster. The Nine Houses were wiped out by a calamity, and the Emperor resurrected them.” At least that’s how you always told it in the interminable services you directed back on the Ninth. He became God in the moment of the resurrection. But then again, I had met God, and if there’s one thing I learned from the experience, it was that God _lies._

“He killed them, Nav.”

I paused. “What?”

“The Emperor killed every single human being in the Nine Houses, and that act of genocide was the crucible where his powers were born. He brought some of them back to life, but only a fraction. He killed billions of people in order to make himself a god.”

Is it strange that the first thing that came to my mind when they said that was you? You always believed in him so fervently — you were so devoted, so desperate to be worthy. When they told me that the Emperor of the Nine Houses, the King Undying, was a mass-murderer, all I could think of was how that revelation would shatter you. I never understood your faith; even if I believed in it, it never really mattered to me. But it mattered to you, and I could not imagine how deeply that would wound you.

“The Commander showed us the truth,” they continued, “and I found his evidence… compelling. His beliefs go a little further than that. He thinks the creation of necromancy was an abomination, and he plans to kill every single practitioner, until it is excised from the universe. I find him abhorrent, but I refuse to bow down and worship a false god. We agreed to help him, under the condition that the Nine Houses were to be evacuated before the Emperor died. Not that it mattered, once the plan was shot to hell.”

“I don’t — ” I began, and then sighed as I struggled for words, “That doesn’t make any sense to me. I met the Emperor, and yeah, that fucker absolutely deserves to die, but I can’t picture him doing _that._ He isn’t some maniacal villain, he’s a self-righteous asshole who always thinks he’s doing the right thing. How the hell would he ever believe that was the right thing to do?”

“People can convince themselves of anything when they truly want to, Nav.”

It didn’t add up to me. Say what you want about me Harrow, but I’ve always had good intuition when it comes to people. That explanation didn’t make any sense to me — it wasn’t who he was. I wanted to ask them more about it, but we didn’t get a chance to discuss it further.

Pyrrha rounded the corner and said, “A ship just breached the atmosphere. We’ve got company.”

* * *

The helm of the shuttle was an incredibly cramped little room. There was a pilot’s chair, a copilot’s chair, a control panel covered in various fancy-looking instruments and controls, two plex screens displaying charts and readings, and appoximately half a square foot of room to spare. With Pyrrha sitting in the pilot’s chair, that left each of us a luxurious quarter of a square foot each to cram ourselves into as we peered over her shoulder at the screen.

The others seemed to understand what the flow of numbers and diagrams on the screen meant, and I nodded along and pretended that I did too. They muttered things to one another that sounded very technical and impressive. Eventually they said something actually useful to me.

“They must know we’re here, that’s the only way their vector makes sense.”

“So… this is good, right?” I asked, “We’ve got a way off this rock now, assuming they find us.”

“Possibly,” Calamedes said, “it really depends on who is in that ship. If it’s Blood of Eden… we have a problem.”

“It’s the Emperor,” Pyrrha said, got out of the pilot’s chair, and somehow squeezed past me without squishing me directly into the wall, which should not have been possible for somebody so huge. Heck Pal and I exchanged a glance, and then untangled ourselves from one another and followed her.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. The approach vector is coming from the region of space the Mithraeum is in, and the displacement readings indicate that it matches the size of the Hermes.”

I could see the question forming, and I cut it off, since I actually knew the answer to this one, courtesy of my time spent in your head, “The God Squad’s mobile base of operations. Not a flagship exactly — it’s pretty small for a deep space ship. Fast as all hell though.”

“Well… that’s not very encouraging.”

“Why not? I mean, yeah, fuck that guy, but there’s probably nobody in the universe better equipped to get us out of here and get us where we need to go.” Pam sent me another patented Camilla Hect glare, and I shifted under the weight of their lowered expectations of my intelligence. “What? Don’t give me that look Sex Cam.”

They added approximately three thousand pounds to that weight. “From now on you are going to call me Master Warden — or just Warden, if you’re feeling casual. You clearly cannot be trusted with anything less formal.”

“Alright, fine then Warden, enlighten me, please.”

“We’re in a Blood of Eden ship, Nav. What do you think the Necrolord Prime is going to assume when he arrives and finds somebody who has been missing, presumed dead for the past nine months in perfect health on a ship that belongs to his sworn enemy?”

“We can hide you,” Pyrrha said, “but he cannot know who I am. He needs to be convinced that my necromancer is still alive.”

“Why?”

She hesitated. "John and I were… not on friendly terms. My loyalty was to Gideon, not him, and he knew it. He’ll know that I’m not on his side.”

I thought for a moment. “Do you still have my sunglasses?” She patted down her various pockets, and eventually managed to extricate them, looking more than a little bent, but still intact. She nodded at me and put them on. “Alright Warden, what else do we need?”

But Warden was not looking at me. They were looking past me, intently focused on something behind me.

I turned to follow their gaze, and landed upon your body. It was moving. You were moving. You sat up, your shaggy hair falling in front of your face. You were leaning back on your hands, knees bent. I can’t tell you how good it felt to see you move again, to see your body in motion through eyes that weren’t your own. There would be a shitstorm coming between the two of us, that much I knew for sure, but for the moment I let myself be relieved.

It didn’t last long. You brushed your hair out of your face, and in an instant, that relief dropped like a stone, hitting the bottom of my stomach icy and sharp. Because the eyes I saw in your face were not yours; they were not the dark, searching eyes I spent a lifetime getting to know. They were _my_ eyes, bright and golden. And I knew what that meant.

“No.” I whispered. Everyone turned to look at me, including your body. “No, don’t do this. You can’t do this to me.”

“What’s wrong, Nav?” Warden asked.

“It’s not fair,” I choked. They all followed my gaze to look at your body, but she just stared back. Her eyes were a rapier thrust into my breast, and there was no malice in that stare, but it was malicious all the same. The room went deadly silent.

“Who are you?” Warden asked quietly. Your body blinked, finally, and looked at them. From behind me emerged the quiet bulk of Pyrrha, stepping slowly towards her. When she got close to your body she stopped and took a long breath.

“Alecto,” Pyrrha greeted, her voice carefully neutral. The Death of the Lord held out her hand expectantly, and Pyrrha grabbed it, helping her to her feet.

“It’s been an awfully long time, hasn’t it, Pyrrha, my dear?” That was what did it. Her way of speaking sounded so unbelievably wrong in your body. Sure, she had your vocal cords, had the same pitch and raspy undercurrent, but it wasn’t you. Your voice was a dark intonation, heavy with a portentous gravity that I loved to make fun of. Her voice was a lilting melody, gentle and rhythmic, as if reciting a poem.

I couldn’t stand it. I started towards her, fists clenched, spoiling for a fight. I had no idea what I was planning to do once I reached her; I couldn’t exactly kill her, could I? She was a squatter in a home that was yours by right. Before I could get close enough to figure out an answer to that question, Pyrrha held her arm out and placed one huge hand on my chest, holding me back. She wasn’t _that_ much stronger than me, now that I was back in my own body, but it cleared my head enough not to push past.

“That doesn’t belong to you,” Pyrrha said. Her face was stone — neither hostile nor welcoming, simply unyielding. Alecto stared at her with that same unnerving intensity that she had directed at me. It didn’t match her placid expression, her soft words, and I was torn between being mesmerized by it and desperately wanting to look anywhere else.

“I thought you might be happy to see me.”

The tense grip of Pyrrha’s hand on my chest softened, and she slowly lowered it back down to her side. “You know that I would be.”

Warden spoke up, “What have you done with the Reverend Daughter?”

“I’ve done nothing to her.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. She turned that awful stare upon me and tilted her head to the side quizzically. “You’ve been stalking her for half a decade, you geriatric creep. You were waiting for a moment like this, weren’t you?”

She didn’t look any less confused. “Of course I was.”

“Well… well… “ I sputtered, “Get out! Let her come back!”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

I matched her stare, and fumed dramatically. She did not look in the least bit intimidated by my anger — if anything, she looked vaguely amused.

“We are not letting you walk away with her body,” Warden said.

“What you will or will not allow is of no significance to me.”

“Alecto,” Pyrrha murmured, “don’t… don’t do this.” A deep, heavy sadness etched itself in the gaunt lines of her face. It chiseled into her like a river chisels a canyon, ten thousand years of erosion made visible in the wrinkles around her eyes, the pinch of her lips.

“I thought you would welcome me back. Why should her life mean so much to you?”

“We put her through hell, me and him. I owe her this much.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, “perhaps. But I am here in service of a far greater debt, and I will see it repaid. I am taking back what belongs to me.”

And oh, there was my leverage.

“Not without me you’re not.” Her eyes bored into me, but she did not respond, merely waited for me to elaborate. “Taking back what’s yours — you’re talking about your body, aren’t you? I know you were watching, when I found out. There’s only two people in this universe that can open that tomb, and one of them is me.”

She considered this for a moment. Then, she bent over and grabbed my two hander from where it lay on the floor beside her. She lifted it up and held it ready, and my mind whirred as I drank in every detail of her body language. Her stance, the placement of her feet, how close to her body she held the blade, the spacing of her hands on the grip, the angle she held it at — I picked all of it apart. She knew what she was doing, that much was obvious, but she was wielding it as if it was heavier than it actually was. She was used to something bigger than my longsword — some kind of greatsword.

Warden, Pyrrha, and I all exchanged glances, then we all looked back at her at the same time. Two rapiers were pulled from their sheaths at the same time. I didn’t have mine, but I reached into my cloak and strapped on my knuckle gauntlet. Warden’s knife rasped against the side of its sheath as they drew it. Pyrrha readied her spear — this one was different than the one you had been skewered by countless times. It did not fold in on itself as that one did; it was short, only about a foot long, but when she pressed a button on the side, the shaft telescoped violently outwards in both directions before snapping into place at its full length.

The three of us advanced upon her as one.

Apparently she knew how to read the room, because she abruptly changed tactics. As we approached, she tilted her head back, held my sword sideways, and raised it so that the edge pressed hard against the skin of her throat.

“One more step and I will slit her delicate little throat.” I cannot explain what she did with her voice. Without losing a single ounce of gentleness or softness, it suddenly became terrifyingly vicious, like she was about to eat us alive for our impertinence. We all stopped short. But after a moment, I began to approach again, slowly and cautiously.

“And if you do, it will just close right back up.”

“She healed only when she chose to heal. I can choose not to.”

“Bullshit. I healed automatically when I was in there.”

She drew the blade forward an inch and sliced a shallow cut into her neck. It trickled blood down to her chest, ruining your shirt even worse than the sandstorm did. “You are her cavalier. I am not.”

“And you still don’t have a way into that tomb without me.”

“Oh, Gideon, I don’t need you to cooperate with me. You threw your life away the moment you returned to your body. It will only take a few days before she drags your soul down with her, and I can take your empty shell with me.”

 _Shit._ That hadn’t even occurred to me. I scrambled to find a response, to find a way to pressure her, but Warden beat me to it. “The Emperor is only minutes away. You have no way to escape.”

“John will do nothing. For all he knows, I am his lyctor, and you will do nothing to disabuse him of that notion, lest you throw away her life. It would be… a setback, but I can find a new host.”

“The moment you do, I step inside the Mithraeum’s incinerator, and you will _never_ get your body back.”

Her face twitched, almost imperceptibly.

“Nav!” Warden exclaimed, aghast, “You cannot — “

“Shut up Warden.”

My entire body felt like a rope pulled too taut, seconds from snapping. I tried to match the intensity of her stare, but I don’t think my face was meant for it. Something about her eyes made them feel like an anvil resting in my lungs. The cut on her neck remained, still oozing blood, and the dark, wet stain ran down the entire front of your shirt now. She smiled, slow and pleased. The sight was nauseating.

At length, she said, “I think I like you, Gideon.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I deadpanned.

“Alas, it seems we are at an impasse.”

“If you don’t decide in the next few minutes, the decision will be made for you,” Pyrrha intoned gravely. I could only imagine how the Kindly Prince of Death would react to seeing this shitshow. Frankly, the idea of his calm, condescending mediation made me want to strangle someone.

Oh, how desperately I wanted you with me in that moment. I was so unbelievably out of my league. I had no idea what I was doing. I needed you there, I needed you to cut her down to size, I needed you to call me an idiot and point out some solution I had missed. I needed _you._ I’ve always needed you Harrow. I still do.

“Can you bring her back?” I asked, “Can you do it?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t call myself a necromancer, but I know a thing or two about the soul.”

“Show me. Show me you can do it, and I will open the Locked Tomb for you, even if I have to kill God himself to get there.”

“Nav,” Warden said, “you cannot be serious.”

“I will not surrender my leverage — “

“Then bring her back in my body! Make me like them,” I gestured at Warden, “just show me that you can do it. And when you have your body, you give hers back.”

Her eyes lit with fire, and her grin grew wider.

“Nav, don’t be this stupid,” Warden cautioned, “we need to think this through. We don’t know what the consequences will be.”

“If you won’t help me I’ll damn well do it myself,” I growled.

“It would be utterly reckless of us to give in to her demands.” She turned to Pyrrha, “You know her better than we do. What will the consequences be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we shouldn’t help her. She’s been planning this, and we have no idea what she’ll do,” Warden insisted. Alecto watched us, seemingly unconcerned that we were talking about her like she wasn’t there.

“Why the hell are we even talking about this?” I said, “This isn’t a debate. I’m the only one here with special God juice in her blood; the only person she needs in order to open the Tomb is me. It’s my decision to make.”

Warden’s eyes narrowed. “Just because you can do it alone doesn’t mean you’re the only person who will have to suffer the consequences. I will stop you if I have to.”

“If you want this to be a fight I can make it a fight, Warden.”

“Quit acting like a child Nav,” they said, “it’s beneath you.”

I shrugged, “Some would disagree with that assessment.”

“Pyrrha, please, I need you on my side here. We cannot take this risk.”

Pyrrha didn’t answer right away. I awaited her word on bated breath.

“I don’t suppose I get a vote, do I?” Alecto chimed in merrily.

“No.” Warden and I shut her down in unison. Pyrrha did not look at us, she had eyes only for Alecto.

“I never believed them,” she said, “I never believed you were a monster. Was I wrong?”

“Oh I most certainly am a monster, my dear, but I am also a woman of my word.” She lowered my two-hander from her throat, and let the tip fall to the floor, holding it with only one hand. “We will have to move quickly. I can fit her in your body, but it wouldn’t be the same thing as the Warden. You will still be consumed if she is not returned to her body soon.”

Warden looked back and forth between us agitatedly, “This is foolishness. I won’t allow it.”

“And you’ll give her body back?”

She held out one hand. “You have my word.” I didn’t take it immediately. My heart raced, and I _knew_ Harrow, I knew this was incredibly stupid. But what else was I supposed to do? “Would it help if I promised not to kill you? Because I promise I won’t.”

“No. No, it really wouldn’t.” I reached out and shook her hand.

“Nav, don’t do this!” Warden shouted from behind me.

“Now,” Alecto said, releasing my hand, and putting her own against my forehead, “you’ll know what to do.”

At first nothing happened. I heard Warden running towards me, their footsteps loud against the metal floor. Alecto’s hand was warm — you always ran hot. I braced for collision, expecting Warden to tackle me and try to stop the process, but somehow, without me noticing, their footsteps had stopped. Time stopped. It was utterly silent. Nothing moved, and I found that I couldn’t move either.

There was a tug somewhere deep in my chest, and my whole existence flooded with ice-cold water as the world fell away.

* * *

It was ravenously dark. The ship was gone, Alecto, Pyrrha, Warden, all gone. I was falling, falling into an abyss, but once all my points of reference disappeared, it was difficult to tell. There was no wind, no air to provide resistance. All indications of momentum and direction disappeared, until I couldn’t say for sure whether I was falling or simply floating, suspended weightless in a vacuum.

And then I wasn’t. I moved my leg backwards and my foot touched something solid. The angle of my body was all wrong; by the position of my foot, I should have been bent so far backwards in relation to this surface that I would fall flat on my back, but I didn’t. I brought my other foot down. With solid ground beneath me I had a sense of gravity and weight again, but it did not make me fall. I pulled myself forward until I was standing upright.

There was no light, but I could see my own body. I looked down at my feet to see what I was standing on, but I couldn’t tell, it was exactly as black as everything else. I took a step forward, and when my foot touched the ground again, the floor rippled like I had stepped in a puddle. How I could discern the ripples at all was a mystery to me — the floor was perfectly black, but I could see the slightest contrast where the ripples raised up, as if they were catching a light source that wasn’t there.

I got the feeling that walking wouldn’t really get me anywhere, so I didn’t bother searching around me. Acting on some unknown instinct, I raised my foot again and stomped the ground as hard as I could. It didn’t create a splash, and it didn’t sink below the surface, but it sent out taller ripples that went up to my shin. The blackness beneath me wavered, and as it settled back down, something came into view.

The scene unveiled itself like a gentle spotlight was fading in from above. I was looking, through this strange watery floor, into a room. And lying in the very center of the room, atop a raised altar, was you. Asleep, hands folded atop your breast, the grip of my two-hander clasped between them. I exhaled shakily.

There you were.

As I looked closer, I realized that what you were lying on wasn’t an altar at all. It was a coffin, the lid missing, resting askew on the floor beside you. The moment I realized that, I knew exactly what I was looking at.

The sepulchre of the Locked Tomb was made of a dense, lapis blue ice that carried no imperfections or hint of white, as if it had been carved directly from the heart of a glacier. Chains made from a thick, dark metal lay broken and slack on the floor around the bier, one of them still hanging loosely from the edge of the coffin, the end of it lodged in the ice. Anything beyond that small circle of light was a mystery to me, and I had more important things to worry about than satisfying my curiosity.

I kneeled and set my palm flat against the floor, but my hand passed right through it, plunging into freezing cold water. I had leaned my weight forward, expecting to hit solid ground, and when I did not find it I yelped in an extremely dignified and sexy manner and fell flat on my face. I composed myself again, and tried to think this through. My arms both sunk right into the water, but the rest of my body did not. I reached forward as far as I could, until my arm was submerged to the shoulder, but I could go no further, and you were still way too far below to reach.

I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t push with my hands, so I rolled over onto my back and crunched forward, then turned around so that I was kneeling. I held one hand just below the surface and swished it back and forth, feeling the water move.

A scan of my surroundings revealed no clues; there was nothing, just endless black in all directions. I looked back down at you, and when I did, I noticed something that made me squint and look closer. There was something wrapped around your chest. I couldn’t make out what it was — I couldn’t even say for sure whether it was actually visible — but I knew it was there.

My perception shifted, like a camera lens refocusing.

It was a strand of golden light, looping back and forth across your chest, under your arms, over your shoulders. Each line met in the very center of your chest, and the sight of it should have been blocked by my sword, but it wasn’t. I looked closer. From the middle of that knot, a single strand rose, stretching out towards me. It didn’t move, I simply found myself suddenly aware of its existence, my eyes adjusting to see something that they couldn’t before. Tracing its path led all the way from your body to my hand. It passed between my thumb and my index finger and spiraled up my wrist, looping around my forearm six or seven times before finally coming to a stop, the end dangling slightly, like the limp end of a piece of thread.

At first I thought that the golden light was a chain. There were gaps in the center of it; it wasn’t a solid line, like a rope. But I looked at where it passed between my fingers, and saw that I was wrong. The edges were completely solid, but the center was fabulously detailed, a flat ribbon made of intricate lacework patterns. From one angle they would look like letters in an alphabet I did not recognize; from another they were geometric fractals, from another, flowery spirals. And I said that the edges were solid, but calling them edges was a stretch. They were not fixed in one place — moving my head did not let me see the side of them. No matter what angle I looked at it from, the edges were always on the exact outside of the pattern, perpendicular to my vision, like the lacework was surrounded by a tube of light that I was only ever seeing a thin cross-section of.

I pulled my hand back, and the strand went taut. Of course. How simple. I reached my other arm under the surface, grabbed the thread a little lower down, and pulled with all my might. It didn’t take as much strength as you would think — you’ve always been so skinny Harrow. I could carry you all day. Hand over hand I hauled you towards me. Your body arched as your chest was tugged upwards, your hands fell to your sides, dropping the sword to the floor with an echoey clang. You dangled limply from the cord that bound us together. Inch by inch, I pulled you away from your resting place, and back towards the land of the living.

With one last, almighty heave, your body broke the surface, and you gasped for air as I wrapped my arms around you.

“I’ve got you,” I panted, “I’ve got you.”

I hugged you tight, squeezed hard enough to hurt. For a brief moment we were pressed together, your body solid and shivering and real, but then something gave way, and my embrace didn’t just pull you against me, it pulled you _into_ me. Our limbs and hearts and bones merged together, your body sinking into mine, and we were one flesh once more.


	3. The Impostors, Part I

The moment I returned to reality, three things happened in quick succession: Time started moving again, I gasped for air, and the Master Warden of the Sixth House full-body tackled me to the floor. We landed in a pile of tangled limbs and my breath was forced out of my lungs. I scrunched my eyes shut, groaning in pain. The others were talking — shouting? — but their voices were distant and indistinct. Something one of them said must have convinced Warden, because they released my arm from where they had it pinned painfully against my back. I pushed against the ground, trying to get on to my hands and knees, but my arms were jelly, and I only managed to lift myself up enough to see in front of me.

I opened my eyes, and the world was alight. I was lying on the ship’s entrance ramp, facing the outdoors, and the outdoors were shining with light. A pale blue sheen glowed from every surface, coating the entire landscape in front of me. The shimmer was thin and not entirely even, growing more vibrant and substantial in some spots, and thinner and more transparent in others. It was beautiful, and surreal, and I was really not able to handle it at the moment.

I mustered myself, and pushed myself up with weak, shaky arms. I stood up, but it was like my legs didn’t know how to be legs. I began to careen forward, and took a few desperate, awkward steps, trying to stay upright, before I pitched forwards and fell flat on my face on the sand outside. I groaned and pushed myself up one more, spitting ash out of my mouth. A vague sense of nausea pervaded my gut. I stared blurrily at the ground below, blinking at that strange blue glow.

My existence slid achingly into alignment. I felt your presence, and then our memories joined together like two sets of fingers intertwining. I remembered the bubble in the River, the ghosts of Pent and Dulcinea and the others, the fight against Wake. And I could _feel_ you remembering what happened to me — the fight against the Heralds, the revelation of my heritage, the deaths of Augustine and Mercymorn, the deal with Alecto. It wasn’t something I should have been able to feel, but I did feel it; the sensation was bizarre and a little bit tingly. It was a re-alignment of two brains and souls, and when we clicked back into place, the blue glow faded to nothing, and my vision was normal again.

My body rolled over, and I started to freak out, because I did not tell it to do that. In my panic I bolted upright, sitting up with wide eyes. The others were all standing at the top of the ramp, staring at me in anticipation. My body looked down and surveyed itself without my input, and I yelped and leapt to my feet, staggering backwards on wobbly limbs. My body righted itself. My hand raised itself in front of my face, and my body looked at it curiously, turning it back and forth. I put it down and shook my head violently.

“Okay, what the hell — _is going on?_ _”_

“ _What… where —_ am I?”

Halfway through my sentence my voice switched from speaking aloud to speaking only in my head, and yours did the reverse.

“Pardon?” Warden asked.

“ _Griddle…“_ you said in my mind. The way you said my name absolutely killed me. It was laden with awe and disbelief, and it was so _soft_ that I didn’t know what to do with myself. My heart clutched in my chest. I took a deep, shaky breath. I fished for words, and I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell you how much I had missed you. But then I remembered. I remembered my anger, and I drew it back up like armor.

“Harrow, as soon as you’re back in your own body, I am going to punch you in the taint,” I slurred with lips that still felt weird and uncooperative.

“ _I — wha — Pardon me? My what?”_ I looked up, and saw the Warden roll their eyes and breathe out a sigh of relief. Alecto quirked an eyebrow. I had the belated realization that I had spoken my threat out loud.

This time I actually _felt_ myself lose control. I wasn’t in the driver’s seat of my own body anymore, I was just a passenger. I could still feel everything my body felt, but my muscles moved entirely independent of my thoughts. It wasn’t even the loss of control over what I was doing that weirded me out — the weirdest thing was losing control over all the little movements, the little fidgets and balance adjustments that you do all the time without even noticing you’re doing it. Simply put, it sucked, and I don’t want to do it ever again.

You sighed, and said, out loud, using my mouth, “It… it worked. All I ask is that if I say anything stupid, please assume it’s my host. I don’t want to be held responsible for her crudeness.” I could hear the soft vulnerability in your voice disappear more and more with each word, replaced by the imperious affect I knew so well.

“ _Hey!”_ I protested, making sure to keep my voice internal this time. Warden smiled and stepped forward to clasp one hand on your shoulder. The instinctive flinch that their touch prompted did not dissuade them.

“It’s good to have you back, Reverend Daughter.”

“Likewise, Warden.”

“We’re out of time,” Pyrrha intoned. I don’t think anybody in this universe is capable of sounding as ominous as you, but she gave you a run for your money. Following her line of sight, I saw in the sky above that vast flatland a single, miniscule speck, way off in the distance. It was too far away to make out properly, but I could see that it was growing, slowly but surely. The Emperor was here. Reality came crashing back in. There was no time, no time for me to say any of the things I wanted to say to you, no time for a reckoning, and my words sat in my lungs like a lead weight.

“We need a plan,” Warden said.

You drew yourself to your — my — full height, back straight, head held high, and you were no longer lost and vulnerable, you were all business.

“The only way we are returning to the Nine Houses is through the River. Warden, if you can hide yourself and sneak aboard the ship, once we return to the Mithraeum you can stay on the Hermes and paint the necessary wards.”

I pulled control back from you — I wasn’t not quite sure how I did it, I just sort of… made it happen. It was instinctual.

“Uh, problem with that plan, don’t I, like, _die_ if I go in the River?”

“As long as the Reverend Daughter is with you, you should be fine,” Warden assured me, pacing back and forth as they though, “If we can all drop into the River, we should be able to — “

“I can’t,” Pyrrha interrupted. Warden, Alecto, and I all turned to look at her. If she was worried by this development, she did not show it. Empty reassurances hung on the tip of my tongue, but I would not insult her by saying them, and she spared my the choice anyway. “I’ll stay behind.”

At length, I asked, “Will you be alright?”

She shrugged. “I’ll have to be.” I stared at her for a moment. Her necromancer was a dick, but I actually kind of liked her. I think we all knew that she wouldn’t be alright, but she knew what she was doing, and I would not condescend to tell her not to do it. Eventually, I nodded, and turned away, swallowing thickly.

“Alright,” Warden cut the tense acknowledgment in the air, “it’s time for me to make myself scarce. I’ll see you on the other side.” With one last nod, they turned and walked briskly towards a jumble of boulders near the edge of the landing area that was big enough to hide in.

“Gideon, you cannot stay in control of your body,” Alecto said. You snapped your gaze to her and stared intently, as if you were only just now seeing her for the first time. I think we were starting to get the hang of this, because you were able to seamlessly take control, and I effortlessly took it back. It was easy, once I was accustomed to how it worked.

“What?” I said.

“Your eyes,” Alecto explained, “your eyes keep changing to match who is in control. If we were truly a lyctor split into two bodies, we would swap eye colors, as he and I did. Mine are gold, therefore yours must be black.”

You spoke slowly, “So you’re saying that you will have to pretend to be me, and I will have to pretend to be Griddle?”

Alecto nodded. I groaned.

“Fuck.”

“ _No, no, this will work,”_ you tried to convince yourself, _“I’ve known you long enough Nav, it can’t be that difficult to emulate your mannerisms.”_

I wiped my face with my palm and took a deep breath. “This is going to be a fucking disaster.”

But there was no time to do anything about it, because the fucking disaster was imminent. The Hermes was growing large in the sky, and before long, it was directly overhead. I recognized it vaguely, but so many of my memories from within you were hazy and indistinct. It was easily five times the size of the little shuttle we just left, and it looked like no other ship I had ever seen.

It was made of black metal, bulky and oddly shaped, but still rather sleek and elegant. It had been the mobile base of the Emperor and all his hands almost since the time of the resurrection, and its age showed. It wasn’t battered or worn-down — he kept it well maintained — but it had clearly been built a very long time ago and then upgraded and renovated many times over the millenia, leaving it a melange of old, outdated tech, retrofitted modernity, and antiquated architecture in styles I couldn’t even recognize. The windows were _real,_ not plex like every other ship I’d ever seen. You could tell from the reflectiveness; they caught the weak sunlight in a way that plex never would have, shining dully with a pathetic attempt at glare.

It floated gently down, the dull roar of the engines suddenly very loud in the stillness of that dead planet, blowing ashy sand and pebbles outward with the force of the exhaust. It came to rest in front of us with a satisfying thunk, the back facing towards us so the entrance was directly ahead. The engines cut out.

There was a long, awkward silence in between the shuttle turning off and the door opening, as the Emperor presumably made his way from the helm to the back. There were so many things I wanted to say to you, but there wasn’t any time. I fought the urge to make any movement, no matter how small, in case I accidentally took control and got us rumbled through some pointless fidgeting.

“ _So… turns out God’s my dad.”_ I said to you, because I am an impatient bitch.

“ _I’ll be honest Griddle, I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around that yet. I’ve put it into the back of my mind, in the very large pile of things to panic about later.”_

I snickered, out loud, and Pyrrha glared at me. I coughed sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s Harrow’s fault though.”

“ _Shut up Griddle,”_ you chastised, and I did. It wasn’t your best attempt though — your reproach sounded almost fond.

The Hermes’ walkway extended with a mechanical rattle, pushing into the soft sand below and creating a ramp that led to the entrance. The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and there he was.

The Emperor. The King Undying. My dad.

I still couldn’t understand how you spent all those months just… hanging out with this guy. His eyes creeped me out beyond belief, although knowing they were originally Alecto’s eyes made a lot more sense to me. He was too normal, too plain-spoken and casual for the terrible weight of that black, eclipse gaze. Even without them Alecto’s stare was piercing and unnerving, and I did not like the picture that was created in my mind when I imagined her with them. Those eyes came to rest upon us the moment we came into view, and they went very wide.

The Emperor of the Nine Houses looked at us, then he looked at Alecto, then Pyrrha, then Alecto again, then back to us. I could almost see the gears whirring in his head.

“I’ll admit, of all the things I expected to see when I opened that door, this was not it.” God walked down the ramp and approached Alecto. “I’m glad you made it Harrowhark, I was worried.”

I breathed an internal sigh of relief. He bought it. Now all we had to do was not fuck it up by opening our stupid mouths. No pressure.

“Thank you, my lord.” My biggest concern, her voice, turned out to be a non-issue. Her mimicry of your cadence was surprisingly good, if a bit less clipped than it needed to be. I’d have recognized the pretense in an instant, but anyone else should have been convinced.

The Emperor turned to us. I could almost feel you frantically trawling my memory, trying to recall how I spoke to him. “What’s up… pops?”

Oh god. Oh god no. I could not handle this. You sounded like a dorky dad trying to make his kids think he was cool. You sounded like Magnus Quinn trying to relate to the Fourth teens. You sounded like a space alien who’s heard about human beings before, but has never actually met one. I found myself wishing that you had just gone ahead and eaten me from the beginning, to spare me the torment that I knew was about to come.

Somehow your shitty impression didn’t immediately give us away.

“I have… so many questions. I imagine you do as well — the past few days have been profoundly weird. But not here. Let’s get you all home first.” He walked towards Pyrrha, who stood in perfect posture, stiff-backed and ridiculously tall. He didn’t say anything to her, just put one gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

He nudged his head in the direction of the entrance, and we followed him up the ramp.

As we walked, he asked Alecto a few questions about what happened and how she found my body, and she fed him a stream of bullshit that was probably very convincing. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too focused on how awful you were at pretending to be me.

“ _Okay sugarlips, we’ve got a few moments here, so we’re gonna play a little game called How to Stop Fucking This Up.”_

“ _Excuse me?”_

“ _Lesson one: stop being so goddamn tense. Relax. I know that you were born with the Empire’s biggest stick rammed up your ass, but I was not.”_

“ _What would you have me do?”_ you hissed.

“ _Your posture needs to be worse. Unsquare your shoulders. Let them slouch a bit.”_ Slowly, awkwardly, you went from walking with a perfectly straight back and set shoulders to a more casual slouch. It was still weird and a little too formal, but it was a hell of a lot better than before. _“Okay, good, yes, now we look a little bit less like Marta Dyas with her vertebrae fused together. But you’re still too stiff. You need to swing your shoulders and hips a little more when you walk.”_ That one you were less good at. You tried your best, you really did, but you couldn’t find a balance between military stiffness and flaunting your stuff on a catwalk. I decided that it was a lost cause, and let it go.

We passed through a central war room with a big, circular table in the middle, its surface a plex screen displaying various readings and scans. The table was way bigger than it needed to be for the six chairs surrounding it, and it made the whole room feel empty. There was a pile of twelve other chairs stacked up in the corner of the room, gathering what little dust exists in the sterile environment of a spaceship.

We arrived at the helm through the door at the far end of the war room. The helm was focused around a high-backed chair with two plex screens attached to swivel mounts on either side. Huge windows dominated the front, presiding over the emptiness outside. There was a pilot’s chair and a copilot’s chair towards the window, each one nestled in a hive of buttons and screens and controls. Two long benches curved along the semicircle of the back wall. It was not sleek or pretty, it was busy and metallic and industrial, and I kind of liked it. You and I sat on one of the benches, on the end closest to the window, beside Alecto, as the Emperor took the central chair and Pyrrha set herself down in the pilot’s chair without a word.

“Take us home Gideon,” God commanded.

Pyrrha’s hands slid onto the controls like the caress of a lover. Her fingers flexed as she took a deep breath and brought them into position. I was sitting in the spot on the bench closest to her, so I saw what the others couldn’t; a tiny, private smile crossed Pyrrha’s face, and she murmured, so quiet I could barely hear, “Missed you, old boy.”

Her fingers danced across the console, deft, practiced, and confident. The engines hummed to life, their sound much deeper and more penetrating now that we were inside, and the ground fell away. The acceleration was so _smooth,_ the dampeners killing the g-forces so thoroughly that it took a moment for my body to even register that we were moving. The thin layer of clouds parted easily as the ship carried us into the upper atmosphere.

I heard the rumble from outside as we started to pick up some serious speed, streaks of orange dancing across the windows. It broke, and we were free, the grey sky fading to black and revealing the endless stars. Once we were fully out of the atmosphere, Pyrrha’s hands massaged the controls further, the in-atmo thrusters cut out, and the deep-space engine powered on with a wavering whine. The noise faded as they fulled revved up, and that’s when Pyrrha really punched it. I could see the view from behind the ship displayed on one of the screens around the pilot’s chair, and the planet retreated into an infinitesimal speck in seconds.

“Trajectory’s set,” Pyrrha said, reaching up above her to flick a dial from one position to another. The Emperor nodded.

“Alright, take some time to rest, all of you. It’s going to be a few hours.” We got up and began walking towards the door when he spoke again. “Actually, Gideon, would you stay, just for a moment? I’d like to speak with you.” Two people who were not named Gideon looked at him. He realized his mistake, and chuckled, although it was half-hearted with weariness. “Nav, that is.”

God dammit — no pun intended, for once — I did not have time for this insufferable prick and his self-righteousness. It’s not that I thought he would figure us out — he had met me precisely once, for about two minutes — I just wanted to _talk_ to you. My whole being felt like it had been left on pause right before the final act. We hadn ’t had a single moment alone. I was so incredibly antsy, but I couldn’t actually _do_ anything, I had to sit in the passenger seat, practically vibrating inside.

Pyrrha filed out the door, and suddenly, it was just us. You, me, and God, standing awkwardly far apart. He looked at us with a calm and patient smile.

“Is this some sort of father-daughter bonding thing?” you awkwardly asked, “because I’m not really into that.” Okay! Yeah! That was a passable Gideon-ism, Harrow! I was proud of you.

God chuckled, “Not quite. But you provide me with quite a fascinating dilemma.”

“It’s a habit of mine,” you said, and okay, ouch, that was just rude Harrow.

“There has never existed a being quite like you before, Gideon. I am not entirely human, which means that neither are you. We are in uncharted territory here.” He sat back down in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward so his clasped hands were in front of his mouth. You shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t think I’m any different than anyone else.”

He sighed, “Well, I know that you and Harrow were the only ones in the Ninth House to survive the crèche flu. This might be why.”

You went very still. “So being more than human helped me survive the gas?”

God raised a single eyebrow. “She told you about that?”

Having you in charge of my body gave me a window into what you were feeling. Your reactions were not the same as mine, and while I couldn’t feel your emotions, I could feel my body’s physical reactions. You went very cold and tense. When you spoke, your words were slow and carefully chosen. “I am her cavalier.”

God sat back in his chair, surprise evident on his face.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” he said at length. He contemplated this for a long moment before shaking his head and continuing. “But even if you are hardier than most, it still doesn’t explain… hmm. I’m wondering whether your unique heritage helped you create the perfect lyctor bond with Harrow.”

I couldn’t feel what you felt, but I didn’t need to in order to picture the gears whirring in your head. “Would it need to?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. It shouldn’t have been possible for the two of you to accomplish what you did.”

“Why not? I thought the others figured you out. Wasn’t it possible all along?”

“Yes and no. It’s possible, but it’s not as simple as they might have assumed. There’s a cost — there is _always_ a cost. Your abilities may have facilitated it. I also think that the… _unique_ circumstances of Harrowhark’s birth may have played a part.”

Your throat closed up, and you gripped the side of your robe tight enough for your knuckles to turn white. Both of your hands were trembling, and I could feel the enormous effort it took for you to prevent the rest of your body from trembling along with them. You swallowed thickly, and squeezed your eyes closed.

“ _Harrow, don’t — he’s just speculating, don’t freak out.”_

You opened your eyes, and the world was afire with blue light. The tension flowed out of you for a brief moment in your surprise and confusion. The blue glow was thinner here than it had been on the planet — a pale sheen that covered the ship in patches of light. Even in its thinnest spots, there was something — except for the Emperor. His whole body was entirely absent of light, and he looked like a hole punched into the fabric of reality.

“Are you alright?”

You closed your eyes and shook your head to dispel the trance the light put you in. When you opened them again, it was gone. The world was normal.

“Yes, my Lord,” you managed, and I decided not to give you shit for thinking I’d ever call him that. I figured you had a lot on your mind. God looked at you strangely.

“Please, just call me Teacher.” You nodded, your body filling up with tension once again, your hands no longer clenched into fists around your robes, but still shaking slightly. After a moment of searching silence, he said, “I’ll need to do some calculations, figure this out. For now, get some rest. You’ve been through a lot.

You turned on your heel way too abruptly, and hurried out the door. The moment you were out of sight, you stopped trying to regulate your breathing. I couldn’t believe we had gotten away with that, with how awful your pretense was. But I figured he didn’t really know me especially well. Or you, for that matter. I wondered, not for the first time, why you put so much faith in that man.

* * *

Your room on the Hermes was exactly what I expected it to be. It might once have been decorated and homey, but you stripped it down to its bare essentials. There was a narrow bed that looked harder than the floor it stood above, a single wooden chair in front of a tiny, unadorned desk, an end table beside the bed, and a chest of drawers against the wall. On the far wall was a door leading to the attached bathroom. It was way too little furniture for the size of the space, and it made the whole room look huge and unfinished. Intricate, excessively layered wards covered the entryway on both sides, but they lay dormant, disabled.

The Abyss of the First sat on the edge of your bed, hands folded primly in her lap. She had changed into a fresh set of robes, her torn and bloodied rags tossed in the corner. My sword rested atop the chest of drawers.

That was the moment where it really hit me, how strange it was being in my body with somebody else in control. The only physical reactions I felt were yours. But I knew that if I had been in charge, my stomach would have dropped like a stone. As it was, I could only watch, halfway dissociating, feeling weird and numb with the lack of physical response to my emotions.

This was the part I was dreading. I wanted to talk to you, to release the nine months of words threatening to vomit out of my mouth. Instead, I was going to have to sit there as you professed your love to your icicle girlfriend. Look, I meant what I said to Ianthe, I never went into this with the intention of making you love me. I expected nothing from you. But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t going to hurt watching you moon over her.

Without somebody we needed to deceive in the room, I could’ve taken back control, but I decided not to. I figured I’d give you your moment, bite the bullet and get it out of the way now. I sat back in my mind, resigned to what was about to happen. I waited for you to do it. For you to call her ‘beloved’ in hushed, reverent tones, or kneel at her feet and pledge your undying devotion, or whatever the hell your definition of timeless romance was.

But you didn’t. You barely even looked at her. You walked straight over to your desk chair, collapsed into it, and stared down at my hands, turning them over slowly, like you had to check every single detail to make sure they were actually real.

You opened your mouth as if to say something, but instead just sighed. You closed your hands, my hands, into loose fists. You opened them again, and placed them carefully on top of your thighs. You looked up at Alecto.

“If you would give us some privacy, please.”

I did whatever the emotional equivalent of a double take was. Alecto tilted her head to the side.

“Hmm, I thought you would have more to say to me, Harry,” Alecto mused, and it should have sounded smug, but it didn’t. Her voice was soft and gentle, like a teacher speaking to a child. I couldn’t tell if she legitimately wasn’t trying to antagonize you, or if that was just what her voice was like. “You made me all sorts of promises, you know.”

“I…”

“Did you not mean them. Am I not your beloved?” Alecto stared at you, a slight, unreadable smile on her face. If she was genuinely upset by you not keeping your promises, she showed none of it in her expression. Your nails dug into your palms painfully.

I had seen enough. I stood up, took a step towards her, and said, “She asked you to leave, asshole.”

She stood up as well, and walked towards me. “Can she not speak for herself? Are you her keeper?” She came to a halt barely a foot in front of me, and I stared down at her. That _fucking_ smile still wouldn’t leave her face. My lips twitched into a silent snarl.

“Yeah. I am.”

Did my eyes really look like hers? They couldn’t have — I think people would have treated me very differently if they did. No, they shared a color, but they did not look the same. I never could have looked at somebody like a lead spike being slowly driven into their chest.

She made no move to leave. I was about to get properly angry, start shouting, maybe shove her a bit, when you took control.

“Get out,” you murmured.

After a long moment, she hummed, and said, “You’re a good cavalier, you know that Gideon? Perhaps the best I’ve ever seen.” I had no idea how to respond to that. She turned away from us, and strolled leisurely towards the door. One finger traced the length of my two-hander as she walked past, catching slightly on the point. “What a curse. What a shame.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and then we were alone. You stood in the middle of your big, empty room, next to the huge window that covered most of the far wall. Without a point of reference to compare to, it appeared as though we were standing still, the stars fixed in their firmament, making the Hermes’ speed invisible. The empty space inside and the stillness outside combined to make the room feel unreal, like an artist’s render that had been left half-completed.

You stared distantly at nothing. Then, you blinked, swallowed heavily, and looked down. Once again you held your hands out and looked at them intently. You lifted one of them up as if to reach for something, but withdrew it. You held it in front of your mouth, the knuckle of your index finger pressed against your lips, and furrowed your brow in a way that felt distinctly different from the way you did when you were concentrating on something.

I readied myself. I knew that nothing good was going to come out of this conversation. I wanted to scream at you. I wanted to throttle you. But I couldn’t find a place to begin. Everything in my mind was askew. You lowered your hand and lifted your head up as if to meet my eye. You took in a deep breath, but instead of saying something, you sighed shakily.

“Gideon…”

No. No. That wasn’t fair. You weren’t allowed to do that, Harrow. You weren’t allowed to say my name like that, like it was the most reverent hymn that had ever left your lips. The sound of it was soft enough to murder me. It cut like a knife through everything I wanted to say to you; I had prepared all of my anger, and suddenly found there was nowhere for it to go. It was like when you’re pushing against something as hard as you can and it suddenly gives way, your own strength sending you sprawling with nothing to resist it. That same, stomach-dropping sensation, right before the fall.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you attempted, voice stilted and awkward. Something inside of me cracked, and I felt all of it — all of me — threatening to pour out and reveal just how much of a mess I was. I reached down inside, and I mustered my anger once more.

“ _No, Nonagesimus, I’m not okay, I’m pretty fucking far from okay. What the hell were you thinking?”_

You frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“ _What am I — I’m talking about you lobotomizing yourself, you idiot fucking wizard! That’s the whole reason we’re in this mess! You should have just gone and done what I asked you to do in the first place.”_

“I had — have — no intention of just letting you die.”

“ _Oh, so you figured you’d just go ahead and get yourself killed, instead?”_

You tilted your chin up. “If it meant saving you, yes. I will not let you give your life for me.”

“ _You should. What else am I for?”_

Your eyes widened and you actually took a step back, as if I was there in front of you. Your lips parted, ever so slightly. “Gideon, you’re not — “ you bit off the end of your sentence, made a strange noise whose meaning I could not interpret, then said, “It doesn’t matter. I saved your life.”

“ _That’s results-oriented thinking baby! You didn’t know that was going to work!”_

“I — what? I have no idea why you’re angry about this, Nav.”

“ _How could you not understand —”_ I started, then took the mental equivalent of a deep, calming breath. The dissociative feeling was getting worse; there was so much anger that should have been coursing through me, burning hot and wild under my skin, but instead all I felt was the lump in your throat. Trying to express my anger without any outward body language felt like trying to burn down a waterfall. _“I gave up my life to save you, and then you did your absolute best to get rid of me and get yourself killed anyway, you asshole, you selfish little coward!”_

“Selfish?” Your voice went cold, and the anger I felt in your skin should have complemented my own, but it didn’t. It wasn’t a fire, it was a glacial current pumping frostburn through my veins. “I saved you, Griddle _._ I put my life in danger for you, I suffered constant humiliation for the better part of a year for you, and now you have the audacity to tell me that I’m selfish?”

“ _You didn’t do that for me.”_

“Who you _think_ I did it for!?”

“You did it for yourself!” I roared out loud, unable to take this silent fury. You went quiet, and when you didn’t respond, I kept going, “Save my life? I was already dead, Harrow, I’d already given you my life. You threw away every single thing I sacrificed myself for, just so you wouldn’t have to be _sad._ _”_

The door opened.

Pyrrha took one step into the room, then stopped short the moment she saw me. She was holding a makeshift bundle made from some kind of cloth wrapped around a handful of items I could not discern. I was breathing heavily, and I couldn’t even imagine what my expression must have looked like to her. My throat locked up, my words lay stubborn beneath my tongue.

We both stood frozen for a long moment. The look she gave me was far too knowing, and I might have shouted at her to leave if I had the ability to talk. She gingerly placed the bundle down on the chest of drawers and walked out, closing the door behind her without a word.

My hands were clenched into fists and I squeezed them tighter, once, twice. I walked over to the desk, limbs moving on autopilot, and unwrapped the bundle — the wrapping was a large cleaning cloth, and inside it were a handful of standard tools for maintaining a blade. I was surprised by the gesture. I was not surprised that she correctly guessed you didn’t own any such tools.

You still weren’t responding. Without the ability to see or feel you, it was as if you were gone entirely, and for a single, awful moment, I was convinced that you were. But the moment passed. You weren’t gone — you were hiding, like the coward you were. I carried the tools over to the desk, then did the same with my two-hander, setting it down neatly in front of me. The chair scraped gratingly against the floor as I pulled it out and sat down. Silent, numb, I set about the monumental task of clearing away nine months of your neglect.


	4. The Impostors, Part II

God told us to use the trip back to the Mithraeum to rest, but that plan was doomed from the start, as I am a contrarian bitch, and you never sleep. So we were still awake when the door opened and Pyrrha and Warden furtively slipped inside, shutting it behind them.

“Everything cool?” I asked.

“Yes, I just believe that staying hidden by the entrance when everybody leaves is a bad idea.”

“Cool, well… pull up a seat I guess.” I ran a cloth along the length of my longsword, cleaning off the honing oil. My baby was back, not quite in perfect form, but as close as I was going to get after the bullshit you subjected it to. I held up the blade and examined it closely, admiring my trusty companion.

“Reverend Daughter,” Warden interrupted, “I think you’ll want to take a look at these.” They held out a notebook, flipped open to a page somewhere in the middle. You put my sword down delicately, and read through their tiny, cramped handwriting. I had no idea what any of it meant, but I picked up enough to realize that these were their notes on perfect lyctorhood.

This nerd shit was beyond me. You read through all of it, and asked intent, pressing questions. I figured if any of it was important, you’d let me know. The longer the conversation went on, the more animated you became.

“The approach seems sound,” you said, “but the numbers don’t add up. The lyctor bond is a thanergy factory, but it’s fueled by the consumption of the cavalier’s soul. This bond takes tremendous energy to create, but you’ve removed the source of thanergy. It has to come from _somewhere._ _”_

“That’s what I’m saying — it doesn’t generate energy through destruction, it generates it through the collision of the two souls. If traditional lyctorhood is like nuclear fission, this is nuclear fusion.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you maintained, agitated, “a reaction like that would generate thalergy, not thanergy.”

“Yes, and we harness that as part of the process.”

You shook your head, “That relies on the channel remaining stable, which is unlikely. You would have to be able to directly manipulate the thalergy in order for it to work.”

“ _Can you not do that?”_

“No Griddle, the human body cannot sense thalergy. Controlling it enough to utilize in a theorem is impossible.”

“No it isn’t.” Pyrrha said. You looked over at her, looming silently beside the door. It took her a minute to realize that everybody was waiting for her to elaborate. “That’s how my necromancer drained your wards. Couldn’t sense it, but he studied it. Knew where it would be, just by knowing how it behaves. Too imprecise to do anything fancy with it, but it was useful.”

Your fingers twitched, and I knew you well enough to know you were aching to take out your notebook and start writing down theories. You muttered, half to yourself and half to them, “Of course, if he could direct it, he could initiate an alan cascade. The blood wards were secure because the existing thalergy would interfere with the resonance.”

“ _Care to say that in hot sword lady language?”_

“ _Thanergy and thalergy are opposing forces. If forced into the same space, they create an effect not unlike destructive interference between two sound waves. They will… cancel one another out, so to speak. It’s called an alan cascade, because it occurs between thalergy and thanergy.”_

“ _That’s a cute little nickname. Did you know that if you put thanergy first in that abbreviation instead of thalergy, it would be called an — “_

You cleared your throat emphatically. Warden gave you a questioning look, which you ignored. “Even if we could control it that way, it wouldn’t give us the level of precision needed for a massive reaction like this.”

“It worked for us,” Warden challenged.

“What you are is not even remotely on this level,” you said, and failed to notice the amused lift of Warden’s eyebrow as they ignored your astonishing rudeness, “and besides, you had the remnant thanergy from your body’s destruction to fuel the merging. We could attempt this, but if you’re wrong, our souls would cannibalize one another in an attempt to find enough energy. It could be disastrous.”

“No offense, Reverend Daughter, but I don’t believe you have a choice. If you don’t act, Nav’s soul will be consumed anyway.”

You stood up and paced, brow scrunched up in concentration. At length, you thought out loud, “What if we went in the other direction? If I could learn to manipulate thalergy in the way the Saint of Duty did, it would be too imprecise to forge such a complex bond, yes, but breaking a bond doesn’t require such fine-tuned control. I could sever our partial lyctor bond, and separate our souls.”

At that, I spoke up, “Whoa whoa whoa, that was not part of the deal, Harrow.”

“It’s better than dying, Griddle!” you snapped, wrenching control back from me. I wrenched it right back. The sensation of swapping so quickly was nauseating.

“You’re going to be a lyctor by the end of this Nonagesimus, whatever it takes.”

“Being a lyctor will never be worth — “ you began, but were cut off by the crackling of the intercom.

“Girls, Gideon, if you would join me at the helm. We’re home.”

You sighed, and bit off what I could only assume was a furious retort. I turned to Warden.

“How long will you need?” I asked.

“Ideally? An hour. These wards need to be strong.” I nodded, but did not leave immediately, hesitating and chewing on my lip. I couldn’t have told you what I was searching for in that moment, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it. I sheathed my two hander.

“See you on the flipside, Sixth.”

* * *

The Mithraeum was a wreck. We got a nice, long look at it as Pyrrha pulled us into the hangar bay. It was utterly battered, with dents and burn marks and great, jagged gashes all over it. The entire hull was plastered with thick layers of green Herald guts. The outermost ring was partially destroyed — an entire section of it was completely gone, leaving the ring as a crescent moon that broke off into ragged strips of torn metal.

The interior wasn’t much better. Piles of Herald bodies filled every room, every hall. Without the intense force of the Beast’s presence they no longer drove everyone into bouts of uncontrollable screaming, which I counted as a blessing, but they were still really fucking gross. We convened in the war room — the central table resembled the one on the Hermes, but the room around it was strewn with Herald corpses, leaving it cluttered and rank.

“The fight with the Heralds lasted significantly longer than we had hoped,” God said, “Ianthe was able to kill the Beast, but having to do it on her own was a tremendous effort. She was down in the River for almost thirty-six hours.”

“Ianthe killed the Beast by _herself?_ _”_ you asked, incredulous. I focused more on the last bit of that sentence — how long had I been unconscious before I woke up on that planet?

God smiled wryly, “Well… not entirely. But I wasn’t lying when I said that I couldn’t help fight it. It can’t kill me, but I can’t leave my body behind, and I cannot afford to face the Heralds. The madness they inflict is unspeakably dangerous to somebody with my power. And with Augustine and Joy gone…” here he trailed off for a moment, gaze distant, before he collected himself and said, suddenly curt and businesslike, “Ianthe the First proved herself worthy of her title, though it nearly killed her. I told her to stay behind and rest while I looked for you.”

Given that our flight back to the Mithraeum took almost eight hours, and she still wasn’t around, that must have been a hell of a nap. I just wanted to get out of there before she woke up. God might not have known either of us well enough to see through our deception, Ianthe most certainly did.

I watched the others, seeing how well they were doing at keeping up the pretense. Alecto was doing an… acceptable job. I still hated watching her in your body. I’ve watched you my whole life Harrow, and it made me intensely uncomfortable to see her emulate you. She was close, very close. But the fine details were off. Something about it went deep into the uncanny valley for me. Pyrrha on the other hand? Well, it was hard to tell. I never got that good of a sense of Gideon, given that most of the time he spent around you was spent in mortal combat. She was definitely good at matching his taciturn demeanor, but I figured there was no way she wouldn’t be, after ten thousand years of being part of him. But God knew Gideon the First a lot better than he knew, well, Gideon the Me, and I had no idea if he would pick up on anything strange.

The Emperor began to talk about the plan going forward — what was broken on the Mithraeum, what was the highest priority, how to begin the rebuilding effort. I didn’t really listen. We weren’t exactly planning on sticking around.

This time, when the blue light appeared, I paid attention. My vision felt fuzzy and weird, like a camera gone out of focus, and there was a sensation like something in my brain sliding to the left, slipping out of alignment. When the shift completed, the whole room lit up with the same blue glow I saw before, but this time, it was more than just a thin, pale sheen. The Herald corpses glowed like miniature suns, radiating light that seeped out into the world around them. They created starbursts of light all around the room, the pools of their blood and guts shining like there was a blacklight on them. The Emperor was a void of light, just like before, but this time I was able to see that everybody else was too, including myself. That made me realize what I was looking at.

“ _Is that — “_

“ _Thanergy…”_ you marveled, _“but how? You’re not a necromancer Nav, you shouldn’t be able to sense thanergy at all, much less_ see _it. This makes no sense._ _”_

“Gideon, are you alright?” God asked. You snapped your gaze up to meet his, or at least where you knew his would be, his actual gaze obscured in his pitch-black silhouette. That sense of my vision being out of focus was delicate — the moment your attention got pulled away it slid back into place and the blue haze faded away.

“I… yes, I’m feeling well, your, uh, your supreme… dudeness.”

I prayed for death.

“As eloquent as always, Ninth,” croaked a new and pathetic voice from behind us.

The eighth saint to serve the King Undying. Slayer of the seventh Resurrection Beast. Princess of Ida. Saint of Awe.

Ianthe Tridentarius had arrived, and she looked like shit. Her skin was decorated with a mottled patchwork of angry bruises, running the gamut of every color I’d ever known a bruise to be. The bags under her eyes were even darker than usual. Her hair was wet, leaving it somehow even more limp and flat, and combined with the reddish-pink tinge that filled the gaps between the bruises, it made me guess that she had just stepped out of a very long, hot shower. She limped slow and unsteady towards us, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped across her torso. Her whole body was folded in on itself.

The worst thing was her eyes. Her expression was what I was used to from her, sneering and disdainful, but there was something there I had never seen before. A haunted, glassy distance that no amount of flippancy could dispel. It wasn’t creepy in the same way that Alecto’s eyes were. Alecto’s eyes were intense and piercing and inscrutable. Ianthe’s were just… empty. I almost pitied her. Almost.

“What, no creative profanity for me? No threats of egregious violence? I’m insulted.” Her voice was that of a chronic smoker who spent their weekends screaming at the top of their lungs through a throat filled with ten thousand shards of glass.

You opened your mouth, then snapped it shut again. “You’re not healing.”

“How astute.”

“Number Seven had some ability to… drain people,” God explained, “we suspect her powers should fully return within a day or so.”

“Harry,” she greeted, “I’m glad to see you well, sister. I thought you hadn’t made it.” For once in her life, she actually sounded genuine. She hummed, looked at me, then at Alecto, then back at me. She gestured at me. “Do I even want to know how this happened?”

“Well,” Alecto began. Ianthe held up a hand to halt her.

“No, spare me, I’ve decided that I don’t care.” She turned to face the Emperor. “Tell me where I am needed, Teacher.”

“Ianthe, really, that’s not necessary, you should be resting. “

“I’ve been sleeping for twenty hours, Teacher, so please, give me something to fucking do,” she snapped. Then her eyes widened as she visibly remembered herself. “I apologize, my Lord, I —“

He held up a hand. “It’s alright, Ianthe. I think we’ve just about settled on what needs to get done anyway. Let’s pair off so each person who can’t use necromancy at the moment has someone with them who can. I’ll get to work sealing off the outer ring. Ianthe, why don’t you and Harrow take a look at the life support systems. Even if they’re working, they’re definitely not functioning at full capacity right now. Gideon and, well, Gideon, I’d like you two to work on repairing the communications array. We can all meet back up here once we’re done. Although if you don’t mind, could you stay behind for a moment Gideon? I’d like to speak with you.” He smiled at me and said, “Other Gideon, this time.”

We all murmured our agreement and stood up. You headed towards the door, and Ianthe and Alecto headed in the opposite direction, Alecto patiently accommodating Ianthe’s pained pace.

I expected you to lead us off in the direction of the communications room — I dimly remembered it from before — but instead, as soon as we left the room you pressed yourself against the wall directly outside It.

“ _Harrow, what are you doing?”_

“What’s with the sunglasses?” God asked, his halfway-laughing voice still clearly audible, given how close we were, “Is that your new thing?”

“Gideon gave them to me.” Pyrrha did not elaborate past that. There was a thick, awkward silence. I didn’t even want to say anything to you in my mind, for fear of being the one to break it. There was no way to see what they were doing from our position, and I found myself suddenly glad that I couldn’t see their body language, their expressions. That felt too… intimate.

“ _Why are we doing this, Nonagesimus?”_

“ _I need to be sure.”_

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine."

“You always are, aren’t you?” God asked. There was no response from Pyrrha. I could almost picture her maddeningly unhelpful shrug. “Listen, mate, I’m… I’m sorry about how things went down at the end there.”

“Wasn’t your fault.”

God chuckled mirthlessly, but didn’t contradict her. “Still. Augustine, Joy,” he sighed heavily, “We’re the only ones left, aren’t we?”

“Yeah.” Pyrrha’s stoic demeanor cracked, that one word coming out thick and choked.

I shifted uncomfortably. _“Harrow, seriously, why — “_

“ _I have to know. We haven’t seen her alone with him until now, we don’t know for certain where her loyalties lie.”_

“ _Really, Harrow? We can trust her.”_

“ _I’m not taking that risk.”_

“ _I don’t care, this isn’t — “_

“It’s times like these when I wish Pyrrha was still here.” Any retort I might have summoned for you died. You froze. The Emperor gave a watery chuckle. “God knows I need someone to call me an asshole from time to time.”

“Well, you _are_ an asshole.” Pyrrha risked. The Emperor outright laughed at that.

“I miss her, man.” Something in his voice sounded way too pointed, but I couldn’t tell if it was actually there, or just my paranoia. “I miss all of them. I’m going to miss Augustine and Mercy too.”

There was a tremendous sadness in Pyrrha’s words when she replied, “I miss her too.”

“I failed them, Gideon,” God unsteadily admitted, “I was supposed to lead them, to make their sacrifice worth it. I _promised_ them I would make it worth it. How did it come to this? I failed them. I failed you. I failed you, Gideon, and I’m sorry, I’m so bloody sorry.”

Somebody began to cry, but I couldn’t have said if it was him, or her, or both of them.

I pushed away from the wall.

“ _Griddle?”_

“ _Fuck this. I’m not doing this.”_ I snuck away as quickly as I could manage without giving myself away. Their voices grew quieter and quieter, until I could no longer hear them at all.

“ _Griddle, we need to — “_

“ _No,”_ I insisted, _“This is so fucked up, I won’t do it.”_ As I got far enough away that I wasn’t at risk of being heard, I stopped creeping silently, and properly let out my agitated energy, stomping down the hallways, barely paying attention to my surroundings.

“ _This is too important Griddle, we have to be certain. If she gives us away, we are doomed.”_

“ _Then that’s a risk we’re just going to have to take.”_

Your voice grew hysterical, _“I am not willing to gamble your life on the whims of a stranger!”_

I stopped. The hallways were winding and labyrinthine, and the intersection I found myself in was entirely unfamiliar. I sighed and leaned against the wall. As much as it frustrated me, there was something deeply comforting about your protectiveness. It was so contradictory to everything I knew about you, about _us,_ but… it was nice. Maybe that’s why it all went to shit in the first place, maybe you had just been protecting me, and I was so unfamiliar with it that I didn’t recognize it.

“I’m not willing to do that, no matter how important it is,” I said. Then, softer, “But I get it, Harrow, and… thank you.”

“ _You don’t need to thank me, Nav.”_ Your voice was stiff and uncomfortable. I closed my eyes.

“Yeah, I do.” I insisted. I tilted my head back until it knocked against the wall. You didn’t respond, and my cheeks flushed, vaguely embarrassed. I cleared my throat, and continued, “I do have one question for you though, my liege of darkness.”

“ _Yes?”_ You were breathless, tentative. I opened my eyes again.

“Where the fuck are we?”

You rolled your eyes and took us where we needed to go.

* * *

The Mithraeum’s communications hub was a simple, boxy room, all functionality, without the typical sober decor of skeletons and memorials that lined every hallway. The walls were lined with equipment, panels and screens with dials and blinking sensors all around. There was a single table in the center, covered in even more equipment. It had a plus-shaped divider cutting it into four stations, each with their own chair. It was less filled with putrid Herald guts than many of the other rooms we had seen, but it still had its fair share.

I had no idea how any of this worked — frankly, I was confused as to why the Emperor decided this should be my task — but apparently you knew what you were doing. There wasn’t as much damage as I expected, but there were definitely some electronics that had been wrecked in the fight. You disassembled machinery, fiddled with wires, removed damaged casings and screens. You rebooted a terminal that you fixed, and the screen flicked on, displaying a manifest with steles that the station was able to ping. At first glance, everything looked correct, but when I paid attention to some of the info listed about the steles, I realized that the data was gibberish. The locations didn’t actually make sense.

“ _Uh, Harrow, I think this one is still messed up.”_

“Of course it is, Nav, that’s the point. I’m not _actually_ fixing them, that would let the Emperor track us. I just need to fix them enough to look fine at a glance.” Ah, yes, of course. I felt like a bit of an idiot. You started to move to the next station, but tripped over a Herald corpse and stumbled, almost falling on your face. You cleared your throat and dusted yourself off.

“ _We should probably clear those out, right?”_

You began to unscrew the metal housing on the next terminal. “That would be quite labor-intensive. We don’t want to be here any longer than we need to be.”

“ _So just summon some skeletons to haul ‘em out, what’s the big deal?”_

You rooted around in the wiring within, searching for damage. “I can’t do necromancy while I’m in your body.” You wiped your forehead, “Speaking of — are you always this _sweaty,_ Nav? It’s disgusting.”

“ _Okay, first of all, rude. Second, what?”_

“Your body is not attuned to sense thanergy. I can tell where it is, but it’s like… it’s like trying to do a press up underwater. There’s no way to gain purchase.” I considered that for a moment.

“I’m going to try something.” I took control, extricating myself from the mass of electronics. I looked out over the room, at the bodies strewn across the floor and the table. With a deep, calming breath, I relaxed my vision, and let it unfocus. It wasn’t an exertion of effort, not exactly. It was like unlatching my mind and letting it slide out of phase — more of a meditation than an action. For a moment, nothing happened, and I felt a little stupid, but then, slowly, waveringly, the blue glow faded into view.

Pyrrha walked through the door. My gaze whipped over when I heard her, and immediately, the glow faded. It took maintenance, I had to keep myself in that deliberate state, and the moment my focus realigned, I lost it. She opened a box of tools and took out a screwdriver.

“I can see thanergy now,” I cheerfully informed her. She gave me a confused look, then shrugged, and began to work on a bank of controls you had not attended to yet.

“I still don’t understand how that’s possible,” you said, “thanergy isn’t… visible.”

"John can see it,” Pyrrha informed us.

“What?”

“His body works different. That’s just how he senses it.”

“That makes sense!” I exclaimed, hand on my chin as I paced and thought, stumbling a bit as my foot hit the Herald on the floor again. “If I’m his kid, I have that ability too, but I can’t actually sense it, so I never saw it. But you _can_ sense it, Harrow.”

“ _So while I’m in your mind, you can perceive it?”_

“I think so. I saw something like this when you were in my head in Canaan house. I could see the joints of the regenerating construct glow in a similar way.”

“Any other revelatory necromantic secrets I haven’t been informed of?” you asked, more than a little irritated. Pyrrha considered this for a moment, then shook her head.

We worked for some time in silence. I let you run the show, since you were the one who actually knew what to do. In the meantime, I mulled over what I had learned. Thanegy. Thalergy. The Saint of Duty draining your wards. I pored over your memories of that, of the fight in the bathroom, the soup, the dinner party, the incinerator.

After you finished up the last thing you needed to fix, I asked, “Pyrrha, back in the incinerator, when Harrow tried to kill your necro — that was you, wasn’t it? You were the one who told her to use blood wards.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Pyrrha shoved a metal panel back into place on the terminal with a satisfying thunk. That terminal had been the last one we needed to fix, so she picked up her tools, and closed up her toolbox. “Didn’t think she needed to die.”

“But Gideon did.”

“He did.” Pyrrha walked towards the door, and I followed behind her.

“You didn’t trust his judgment?”

“No.”

“Why did you die for him if you didn’t trust him to do the right thing?” I demanded. Pyrrha stopped in the doorway. I half-expected her not to answer at all. I wouldn’t have blamed her. What right did I have to know? But she did answer. When she spoke, she was facing away from us, and all I could see was the back of her head.

“I did trust him,” she admitted, speaking slowly, words heavy in the air. There was a long pause between her first sentence and her second. “That was a long time ago.”

She walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

* * *

Ianthe lounged on a table while Harrow worked. She made a big fuss about how she was injured and how it simply would not do for her to exert herself, which was actually mostly true, despite her efforts to make it seem as inauthentic as possible. She had asked Teacher for something to do, but found that even just walking over there took something out of her. Harrow applied sealant gel over a crack in the secondary oxygen recycler. It was a rickety patchwork of a fix, but it would have to do until they could get replacement parts. There were quite a few cracks spread out over its delicate outer shell, and Harrow squeezed her body into a narrow gap in the machinery to reach the last one.

“So, Harry,” Ianthe casually began, as if speculating over a piece of gossip she was only mildly interested in, “given that your cavalier is back, I’m guessing you remember everything?”

“More or less, yes,” came the muffled reply.

“Then would you be a dear and undo the sorcery you put upon my fucking jaw? It is getting supremely tiring having to refer to the Saint of Duty by his title.”

“It will have to wait until you’re fully healed,” Harrow said.

“Alright then, but I’ll have you know, until I can say her name again, I’m going to refer to your cavalier as Gonad.”

“If you must.”

Ianthe’s eyes narrowed. Harrow wasn’t defending her cavalier. How curious. “Did the two of you have some sort of lovers’ quarrel or something?”

“What are you talking about, sister?” Harrow asked, extricating herself from the machine. She looked at Ianthe, who met her with an intense, searching gaze. Ianthe stared at her for a moment, hand on her chin and elbow on her knee, calculating and inscrutable.

“Did you finally figure out that you could have better than her? After all, she’s such a simple creature, isn’t she?” Ianthe antagonized. Harrow slotted the gel canister back in place in a storage shed on the wall.

“Gideon is smarter than you seem to think.” Harrow said, voice calm and neutral. Ianthe’s gaze hardened. She put her hand down and leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs.

“And you love her, don’t you?”

Harrow hesitated, looking back at her over her shoulder. Ianthe watched her expectantly. “I don’t believe that is any of your concern, _sister._ _”_

Ianthe pushed off the table and limped over to Harrow. She kept going until they were uncomfortably close together. Harrow did not back away, but stood very still, body angled slightly away from her.

“Isn’t it?” Ianthe murmured in the delicate space between them.

“I don’t know what you’re — “

“Yes you do.” Ianthe interrupted. She brushed a lock of hair from Harrow’s face. Harrow did not flinch, nor give her the satisfaction of anger. Ianthe’s slight smile was taunting, or sad, or both, and it remained in place as she leaned across the tiny distance between them and kissed Harrow full on the mouth. She pressed and moved her lips against Harrow’s closed, unresponsive ones. Harrow did not return her kiss, but she didn’t turn away either, and Ianthe kept going for an uncomfortably long time without any reciprocation before pulling back. She made a noise that could have been a laugh and pressed her forehead against Harrow’s, her eyes remaining shut, Harrow’s remaining open. Her lips ghosted against Harrow’s with each syllable as she whispered, “She isn’t yours to have, you know.”

Harrow stood stock still as Ianthe turned and walked away, before looking at Harrow over her shoulder and saying, “Well? We’re done here, aren’t we? Do try to keep up, Harry.”

* * *

We all met up in the war room once we were done with our tasks. The only one missing was the Emperor, so we sat around the table and waited for him to get back. Ianthe was sitting on the edge of the table, one knee thrown up on top of it and the other leg dangling off the side. For reasons I did not understand, you sat down in the chair right next to her, when there was a perfectly good spot on the opposite side that didn’t involve us being up close and personal with Ianthe fucking Tridentarius. Pyrrha did not sit all, she just stood there, across from us.

Ianthe stared at me for a minute, weirdly serious and intense, before speaking. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to see you again when Augustine dropped us into the River. What a… _pleasant_ surprise.”

“I don’t have the patience for your sarcasm right now Tridentarius,” you sighed.

“ _Fuck, Harrow, you have got to do better than that.”_

“ _I am **trying**_ , _Griddle._ _”_

Ianthe narrowed her eyes. She turned to Pyrrha and fixed her with that same calculating stare. Pyrrha met it gamely.

“I figured you would probably survive. I wonder… you’ve known them for a myriad, how did it feel to see your traitorous friends get killed in front of you? Were you glad? I figure, y’know, Saint of Duty and all that, you must be glad to see our Lord’s enemies destroyed.”

All I could think was — what the fuck? Where the hell did that come from? Pyrrha did not react to Ianthe’s blatant provocation. After a moment without responding, she provided a shrug, and nothing else. Ianthe let out a long breath and nodded, looking off to the side. Alecto shifted in her seat.

“Well, it’s certainly unfortunate, but they needed to be stopped.”

Ianthe suddenly became the picture of good cheer, asking me in an uncharacteristically chipper voice that was rendered grotesque by her hoarse throat, “What do you think, Gonad? I mean, maybe you didn’t care about those two, but it must have been fun watching your dear old mum get iced in front of you. Maybe get a little shadenfreude, since, you know, she didn’t actually want you.”

You held achingly still, practically vibrating with the effort of preventing me from instinctively taking control and throttling her. Your hands gripped the sides of your chair seat.

“Shut up, Tridentarius,” you snarled.

Ianthe smiled violently. Her face contorted into a rictus of manic anger as she audibly ground her teeth. She stood up, turned to Alecto, and with a barely maintained veneer of calm, said, “I’m going to give you one opportunity to tell me where Harry is.”

Alecto froze. It’s possible that Ianthe was only guessing. That she felt like something was off, and she wanted to catch her off guard. But the moment Alecto froze, there was no doubt.

“What are you talking about sister?” Alecto asked, each word carefully spoken.

“Stop calling me sister!” Ianthe seethed, “I know Harry better than you seem to think, and I know that she doesn’t call me sister unless she wants to piss me off. Where is she?”

“I don’t know what you’re — “

“Where is Harrowhark, you dimwitted little thief?” Ianthe shouted, her voice quavering and cracking with the strain. In all the time you spent with her during these past nine months, I never saw her look genuinely upset. Whenever she was put off, she always covered it with flippant snark and sarcasm, even if it was obvious how she really felt. But now she was _furious._ Her hands trembled in their white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table.

Alecto said nothing at all.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Tridentarius?” you attempted.

Ianthe ignored you, and turned to Pyrrha, “I can tell that you’re still who you say you are. Did you know about this?” Pyrrha shook her head slowly, and her hand crept down to rest on the hilt of her rapier. “Of course you wouldn’t — you never spent more than five minutes around Harry without trying to disembowel her, you brainless lackey. But I’m a little out of sorts at the moment, so why don’t you do me a favor and use all that practice to help me get rid of these impostors?”

Pyrrha was the only one of us who was going to have to stay behind. She was the only one whose cover needed to last long-term. So when Ianthe asked her to commit a murder, she drew her rapier, hefted her spear, and made sure to do it just slowly enough that we were able to fucking bolt.

It was physical activity time, which meant it was time for me to take over. I pushed away from the table and stood up, knocking my chair over in the process, right as Ianthe began to draw her rapier. I bull-rushed her, slamming into her with my shoulder and sending her stumbling backwards. As she reeled and tried to recover her footing, I pulled my arm back and delivered an almighty punch right in the center of her irritating little face. Her nose crunched under my fist and blood spurted out as she sprawled onto the floor.

Alecto threw herself to the ground as Pyrrha’s spear rocketed towards her, howling past only a fraction of a second too late, precisely when she intended it to arrive. I sprinted over and grabbed her arm as she recovered, hauling her back to her feet.

“Go time, c’mon c’mon c’mon,” I urged. We barreled out the nearest exit and skidded round a corner, setting off full speed down the hallway as Pyrrha emerged behind us at a sprint, Ianthe stepping out only seconds later, blood streaming down her furious face.

We rounded the next corner, and I prayed that Alecto could keep up with us with your useless leg muscles. Pyrrha would give us enough leeway to escape, but we had to make it convincing, or we would blow her cover.

“Way to fuck it up, hero,” I panted, “what now?”

“Now we hope that the Warden works quickly.”

We were approaching a junction. I searched my memories of being in your body, but it was difficult to recall the exact layout of the ship, everything was so foggy while I was under the surface. _“Harrow, help me out here, we have no idea where we’re going.”_

“ _Left. The next hallway branches off on the end. You’ll see the path towards the hangar — avoid it. That’s the direction the Emperor went. We’re taking the circuitous route.”_ Your instructions were clipped and focused. Alecto and I tore through the hallways, Pyrrha hot on our tail.

I wouldn’t be able to appreciate it until later on, but this… something about this felt so comfortingly right. I was the one doing the heavy lifting, blood pumping, muscles working, and you? You guided me. Your confident, steady words led me where I needed to go. You aimed me, and I carried us to the target.

The target approached swiftly. We rounded the corner to the hangar, and found the walkway to the Hermes already extended. I sprinted up it and rushed over the control panel. Alecto trailed about five seconds behind us, and the moment she set foot onto the walkway I slammed the button to retract it, so that it carried her towards us even quicker. The Hermes’ engines came to life only seconds after the door closed behind us, and really, God bless Warden, it felt so good to work with somebody competent.

By the time I got to the helm we were already moving, racing forward, squeezing through the half-open hangar airlock while the doors were still sliding open. Warden punched it, and we really started to move, the Mithraeum growing smaller and smaller behind us. Alecto walked up to Warden and put a hand on their shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here. I’ve spent a lot longer flying this thing than you have.” Warden nodded and stood, letting Alecto take the pilot’s chair.

“I’ll submerge us in the River when you’re ready,” Warden said as you walked up behind Alecto and rested a hand on the back of her chair. “We submerge for five minutes. That should get us close enough.”

“Six minutes,” Alecto contradicted.

You gritted your teeth. “Gideon is not a necromancer, and has never traveled via the River before. She will not last six minutes.” I knew it was a very logical argument, but there was still some competitive animal part of me that was a little bit offended by that.

“Well she’s going to have to try,” Alecto snapped, “if we surface that early we’ll be stranded in deep space for hours. All we’ll be doing is giving John the time he needs to track us down.”

“Gaining a tactical advantage is pointless if one of us is _dead._ _”_ you insisted furiously.

“Not to me,” Alecto growled, “all I need is her blood. If she dies, she dies.” Her anger projected off of her like a physical wave, it felt like it could literally push me backwards if she tried hard enough.

“We can’t — “

“This is not a discussion,” Alecto cut you off, “Brace yourselves. Entering the River in three… two… one…”

You fumed, and Warden closed their eyes. There was a great roar of rushing water, and we plunged into the murky depths of hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gideon and Harrow were impostors.  
> 1 impostor remains.


	5. The Nightmare

Filthy, rust-colored water bubbled and spewed its way into the helm of the ship, and I pondered for a moment why the river of the dead looked like a sewage line. You planted yourself on one of the long benches that lined the semicircle of the back wall. Your movements were quick and agitated, and I decided to let you keep control and work it out of your system. You somehow managed to sit down aggressively.

“ _I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”_

“ _I dunno my furious overlord, I’ve never been very good at listening to you.”_

“ _Shut. Up. This is not a time for messing around Griddle. I’ve done this before, and while I’m better at it now that I’ve practiced, it nearly killed me the first time. You are going to close your mouth, you are going to listen to every word I say, and you are going to do exactly what I tell you to do, without question. Do you understand?”_ You enunciated every word crisply and emphatically, back in business mode, but I knew you. I had known you my entire life, and I recognized that tone. You were scared. And that, more than any words you could have spoken, made me afraid. I nodded, I shut up, and I listened.

“ _First, we will drop below the surface. Your body will begin to panic, but you will be able to breathe. The water isn’t real.”_

The water rose higher and higher even as you spoke, and I mentally readied myself.

“I hate this part so much,” Warden said from the bench opposite us. You exhaled calmly as the water rose above your head. I tried to let you handle it, tried to let you use your experience and take control, but the instinctive reaction was much stronger than I expected. It surged through me, and I took over without even meaning to, my mind desperately trying to gain control over the situation. My eyes snapped shut. Forcing myself to take another breath rather than holding it was difficult — my brain resisted the attempt, like trying to fling yourself full speed at a wall — but I did it, and the water that did not exist flooded my lungs. An involuntary, animal panic shot through me. My whole body seized up and surged with adrenaline, but after a few choked breaths, the water filled my lungs and sinuses completely, and the terror passed.

“I’m gonna have to second you on that one Warden,” I said, sounding more than a little strangled.

“One minute past. Five minutes remaining.” Alecto called out.

“Blood ward is still holding strong,” Warden said, “It isn’t my best work, but it should last long enough.”

“I need you to keep listening to me, Griddle,” you said.

“I am,” I promised.

“The world around us is no longer real. Physical space does not exist in the River. This is a projection, created from where your mind knows you are, and where it expects you to be. But your grasp on reality will begin to weaken the more the River pulls on you, and things will stop making sense. The firmer you can keep yourself grounded in what’s going on in the physical world, the easier it will be for your soul to stay attached to it. You need to keep yourself here. Focus on details on the ship, focus on Warden, focus on me.”

Focus on you? But you weren’t… and that’s when I realized that you weren’t just speaking in my head.

I opened my eyes, and there you were. Kneeling in front of me, in your own body. Harrow, I cannot possibly convey the relief I felt when I saw you there. It shouldn’t have made me feel that way; it’s not like I didn’t know you were alive, it’s not like I couldn’t hear you in my mind. But seeing you in your body, seeing you move, your body language exactly what I expected it to be, your expressions exactly as sharp and birdlike as I remembered them… it was indescribably comforting. My spine, still as stiff and straight as you left it, relaxed, and I sighed. The Reverend Daughter was there in front of me, exactly as she should be, and something in the universe shifted back into its rightful place.

The feeling was so acute, it took me a moment to realize the obvious question. “How?”

You shrugged your head to the side, gesturing at the room behind you. “None of this is real. We’re not stuck in the same body here. We don’t even _have_ a body here.”

I looked at you. Drank in the sight of you. You looked back, and your eyes weren’t my golden ones, they were your own. They were piercing, but not in the way Alecto’s were. Hers were invasive, alien. Yours were focused, demanding. Hers looked through me. Yours looked _at_ me. Whenever your eyes were upon me, I knew I had your full attention. I had your full attention now, and it comforted me. I had a vague sense that my face was set in a big, stupid grin, but I didn’t really care. You narrowed your eyes.

“What?”

“I missed you, you dork.” There was some part of me that knew that I was embarrassing myself here, but it was overshadowed. This projection of you had perfect skull paint, so I couldn’t see your skin, but your blush was visible in the expression on your face.

“I…” you attempted, but apparently ran out of words to say, your mouth opening and closing like a fish, which I resisted the urge to mock you for.

“One minute thirty.” Alecto’s voice interrupted, and you snapped back into composure immediately. Your features hardened.

“Just remember,” you said, “whatever you see, whatever you feel, it’s not real. Stay grounded.”

The blood ward sizzled more and more violently with each passing moment. I counted the seconds as they passed, waiting on bated breath.

“One minute forty.”

The ward’s sizzling intensified to the point that it was popping and spitting out little flecks of blood, and then it shattered with a sound like a gunshot. I gritted my teeth as Warden said, “That’s all we’ve got. Hold on tight everybody.”

* * *

Ianthe kept pace with the two men beside her, walking quickly and purposefully through the halls of the Mithraeum. They rounded the corner and entered the communications room. Teacher was in the front, and he immediately found his way to a terminal on the far wall, with a plex screen displaying readouts. He surveyed it, flipping through the entries in the log, scanning them with a serious, intent look on his face.

“Where is it?” he muttered to himself.

“My lord?” Ianthe asked.

“The Hermes! It has an entanglement link with the station — we should be able to ping it, keep track of its path, but it’s not showing up. Where the hell is it?” The Saint of Duty placed a hand on his bicep and motioned for him to let him through. Teacher ceded to him, and he began flicking through the system’s diagnostic tools. There was a tense, grave silence as he surveyed the data.

“The entanglement module is offline. I suspect it has been destroyed.”

“Of course.” Teacher steepled his fingers, pressing his lips to the tips of them and scrunching his brow in deep thought. “Ianthe, you’re certain about this?”

“Absolutely. Whoever that was, it wasn’t Harrowhark.”

Teacher sucked his teeth, and then rubbed his temple, “Okay. This is top priority. If somebody has control of the body of a lyctor, there’s no telling what kind of damage they could do.” The Saint of Duty walked over to the far end of the room and checked up on some more data. Teacher saw where he was going and snapped his fingers, “Good plan, Gideon. If they used the River to escape, we can track the path of the ripples.”

The Saint of Duty initiated the scan, and waited for the results as Teacher went down the line, running diagnostics on each machine in turn. Ianthe stared at the Saint of Duty.

“Weren’t you supposed to be fixing this equipment with them?” Ianthe pointedly asked. Teacher lifted his head from where he was craned over a display, and turned back to look at the two of them.

“What are you saying, Ianthe?”

“It’s a valid question,” the Saint of Duty admitted, “I got here after they did. Just focused on the stations I was fixing. Didn’t think to check theirs.”

“I asked Gideon to stay back and talk with me,” Teacher confirmed. Ianthe smiled, though it did not reach her eyes.

“Of course. I don’t mean to accuse,” she lied.

The terminal beeped as the scan finished, and the Saint of Duty checked the data. Ianthe could not see the results past the bulk of his body.

“The Aurelius system,” the Saint of Duty said. Teacher breathed out a relieved sigh.

“So they’re seeking shelter with the Edenites then. Good.”

Ianthe flicked her eyes back and forth between the two of them. “Would you care to enlighten me? Why is that a good thing?”

“Because we can deal with the Edenites. What we can’t deal with is them getting near Dominicus; the last two Beasts are already far too close for comfort after Cytherea’s little stunt.”

The Saint of Duty paused. At length, he asked, “How close?”

“Last time I checked? A week. Maybe a little less. It depends on how fervently they chase her, it’s always hard to tell how strong of a draw a lyctor will create.” He saw Ianthe’s questioning look, and explained, “Each lyctor seems to draw them a different amount. The most powerful draw, by a considerable margin, comes from me. Cytherea always had a strong pull. We haven’t seen how they react to Harrow yet.”

“Would somebody else being in control of Harrow’s body have any effect on the pull she exerts?”

“There’s no way of knowing. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“What’s the plan?” the Saint of Duty asked.

“Gideon, you need to fix the equipment they sabotaged. I’ll put together a plan to give to our Cohort contacts in the Aurelius system. Tell them to put out a wanted persons alert, at the very least. Ianthe, you can… actually, I don’t have anything for you to do.”

“I will stay here and assist in the repairs,” she decided. Then, far too pleasantly, “After all, it will go so much faster if there’s two of us, won’t it?”

“Good idea. Alright,” he took a deep, centering breath, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes, “it looks like our work isn’t done, my friends. Let’s get to it.”

He was walking out the door when Ianthe called out, “I have one question, Teacher.” When he acknowledged her, Ianthe bit her lip, and noted with feigned casualness, “You said you’ve never seen anything like this before. So I’m guessing you can’t say whether the two of them are alive in there or not?”

The Emperor’s face softened. “I’m afraid not,” he gently replied, “I don’t mean to be cruel Ianthe, but I would not hold out much hope.”

Ianthe’s expression hardened. She drew herself up to her full height, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. A smoldering resolve pervaded every inch of her. “Then let’s fucking kill them.”

* * *

It started out slowly. When the ward broke, the entire ship was already full of that disgusting water. It only took a few moments for the viscera to start appearing. Globules of fat, skeins of human skin, bits of organ and meat and bone, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. I never actually saw any of them appear; it wasn’t as if they just popped into existence in front of my eyes — I would look to the side, or blink, and more of it would be there, as if it was drifting into the ship through an open window that didn’t exist.

Then came the bodies. Grey, bloated corpses, appearing in the water in front of us, slamming against the main window of the helm. One of them split apart on impact with the hull, skin tearing like wet tissue paper and disgorging slimy, rotted organs. It wasn’t long before the bodies were inside the ship. I flinched away from a drifting corpse whose burned, scarified skin brushed up against my own. I hadn’t even seen it appear next to me. More of them appeared, all in distinct states of disease and rot. It was vile. It was nauseating.

But I didn’t spend my life growing up on the Ninth for nothing. It was gross, sure, but it bothered me a lot less than it might bother someone from somewhere less fucked up. This wasn’t too bad. I could handle this.

“Two minutes thirty.” Alecto’s voice called through the murky clouds of blood and gore. I looked over at Warden. They were muttering quietly to themself.

They touched the metal of the wall behind them, “Three hundred years. Mined on the second house. Refined and manufactured on the Fourth.” They they moved their hand to touch the surface of the bench, mumbling different facts about its origin, its age. They spoke with a methodical, ritual cadence.

The cloud of viscera grew denser and denser. It was getting harder and harder to make anything out. I could still see you right in front of me, but everyone else disappeared from view.

“Three minutes.”

“Stay focused, Nav,” you said.

“I got this,” I smirked, “this is nothing.” The look you gave me was not reassuring. I sat there, surrounded by gore, and watched it pass by, staying calm. They were just bodies. I’d been surrounded by death my whole life, this was nothing new. A minute passed, and then another. You were being weirdly quiet, and for that matter, so was Alecto. The mass of bodies grew thicker, but not by much. I gave up on trying to avoid the gross sensation of dead flesh against my own. The water grew warmer and warmer, reaching an unappealingly tepid lukewarm temperature. We had to be close to surfacing at this point, right? I didn’t see what all the fuss was.

“Three minutes thirty.” I paused. That had definitely been longer than thirty seconds.

“I… what?”

“Griddle, stay calm.”

I looked down at you, still kneeling in front of me. “I am calm.”

The water was getting hotter. The water was getting darker. Rust turned to crimson turned to maroon. I looked around, trying to see if I could discern Warden through the dark. It was a laughable idea. I couldn’t even see the wall beside me. That realization made me pause. I looked down. I couldn’t even see as far as the bench I was sitting on. But I could still see you, I could still see my own body. That’s when I realized, we weren’t in the shuttle anymore. The walls and the bench weren’t there at all.

“Uhhhh.” I looked around, trying to get some sort of bearing, but the mass of corpses was too thick.

“Four minutes.”

“Griddle, stay here. Stay in the ship.” I focused on you again, still visible in front of me, and for a moment, I was back in the helm. The darkness was thick, but I could make out the walls and the floor. It only lasted for a moment though. There was a sound of crashing metal, and I whipped my head to the side to try and find where it came from. The ship was gone again, and I couldn’t see the source of the noise.

Of course. The noise wasn’t real. Projections, all that stuff you said. I breathed in slowly, held it for a moment, and exhaled as calmly as I could.

“Yeah. I got it. I don’t know how to make the ship come back, but I got this. I can do this.”

The darkness was complete, and I could only faintly make out your silhouette. There was another metal crashing sound, then the sound of rattling bones and footsteps falling on unyielding stone. I listened more intently, trying to see if I could make out what the noise was, what the hallucination was supposed to be. I sat there, very still, trying to distinguish the noise. Other sounds joined the chorus. A faint hum of machinery, muffled and distant. Something rickety and wooden moving. The creak of old rope. The new sounds faded in slowly, one by one. I waited for minutes in between each one, intensely focused, trying to piece together the familiar-feeling melange of noise. It became uncomfortable, sitting still for so long. I shifted, wiggled my body a bit, trying to adjust. Fifteen minutes passed, twenty. The sounds all felt very familiar, but my brain wouldn’t cooperate and tell me where they were from. It was like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue.

“Four minutes thirty.” A thick bolt of fear lanced directly into my body. What? No, that wasn’t just me miscounting. I was listening for at least a quarter of an hour. _Maybe_ only ten minutes, if I was really misjudging it. My breathing quickened.

“Griddle!” your voice cut through the patchwork of sound. You were in front of me, but blurry and obscured in the thick haze of cloudy water. “Don’t chase it. It isn’t real. Think about the ship. What does the ship look like? Where are the others in relation to you?”

“I, um, the ship is metal. It’s got… it’s got two thrusters that can swivel to face different directions.”

“Good. What about the room we’re in? What does that look like?”

“It… it’s…” My throat started to close. Okay, okay, we were on the… helm. The helm was circular. Wait, no, it was sort of a hexagon shape, right? Fuck. Fuck. I wasn’t sure. The details were sand slipping through my fingers. The water was uncomfortably hot. The invisible sounds were louder now, less distant. The corpses were still bumping up against me, and my skin was suddenly very sensitive, making every brush an uncomfortable sandpaper rasp. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to calm my breathing.

I opened them to the ceiling of my cell on the Ninth. The rattling sound of skeletons marching to their stations was more distinct. I had to attend to my duties, before Crux got his panties in a twist about me being late. I was brushing the oss. I was on my knees, bent over my work, brushing vigorously, putting some real muscle into it, knowing that even if I’d end up sore, at least I’d get it done quicker this way and be able to do something less boring. After many dreary hours I finally finished for the day, irritated and weary. Crux came by and inspected my work.

“Alright, get to the mess hall. We’re not keeping it open late for an ungrateful wretch like you, so unless you feel like going hungry, you better hurry up. You’ve got — ” and then in an entirely different voice, he said “five minutes.”

I was in the mess hall, eating the usual sludge the Ninth House produces. I was passing through Drearburh proper, closer than I usually like to get to the chapel. I heard your voice saying something, but I diligently ignored it, not wanting to subject myself to one of your inane speeches to the congregation. I was trying to sleep, but the water was so hot it felt like I was burning, and I spent the night writhing and groaning in pain.

I was throwing on my robes to prepare for another day’s work. I was — no, fuck! I was on the ship. I was on the, the — I was pretty sure it was called — fuck, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember. I was… I was…

I was brushing the oss. I was jogging around the perimeter of the snow leek fields. I was sitting in my cell. I was in the mess hall. I was in the chapel. You were shouting at me, but I couldn’t understand what you were saying over the din of a thousand rattling knucklebones. I was brushing the oss. I didn’t put as much muscle into it. After years of labor, I had fucked up something in my back, and I needed to go easy if I wanted the pain to be light enough to let me sleep. When the new Marshal came by to inspect my work, I was only halfway done. She curled her lip into a sneer.

“Useless.”

Shoveling tasteless porridge into my mouth. Jogging around the fields. Picking through the depths of Drearburh with Aiglamene, looking to recover some halfway usable parts. They were all too rusted to use. Picking through them again, but with lower standards, and by myself this time. Aiglamene had been dead for seven years. Brushing the oss — a change of pace, they didn’t ask me to do this as often anymore. It was usually better to let the skeletons do it, since my bad back made me pretty slow.

The water was scalding. I was so tired. My skin was getting tougher and more wrinkled. I came to the congregation willingly, looking for something, anything to believe in, anything to make my life worth something, but you were shouting at me again, so I left. I walked the perimeter of the snow leek fields, accepting the ache it would put in my knees for the chance to get out and get my heart pumping. My hair was gray, then it was thinning, wispy and white, then I shaved it. After all, true ninth house penitents always have shaved heads. Knucklebones clacked together in the chapel. I couldn’t walk very far on my own these days. I knew they were waiting for me to die, so I could actually be useful again.

And then I did die. The Marshal stood over my corpse and disdainfully said, “What a waste you were.”

I was nothing but bones, and my every movement rattled. I was brushing the oss. I was tilling the snow leek fields. I was cleaning the floor of the chapel, sometime past midnight, when nobody would be using it. The door opened. Through it walked someone who was both you and not you. You were still eighteen years old. You walked up to the altar, your face heavy with despair. You placed your hands on it and rested your weight on them, back bent. You sighed wearily. I dropped my mop back in the bucket, and the sound made you look over at me suddenly.

Your eyes fixed intently on where mine used to go. You did not recognize me — I was just another skeleton, you didn’t know whose, nor did you care to find out. You looked away after only a moment.

I reached out one skeletal hand, wanting to call out to you, wanting to ask you what I should do, wanting you to give me a purpose once again, but I had no lungs with which to speak. I wanted to cry, but I had no eyes to fill with tears.

You stood up straight. In a sudden fit of violence you grabbed at the skin of your cheek and buried your fingers into it like it was made of paper. You tore off a huge chunk of skin. You ripped and peeled your own flesh, and when there was not enough left on your face to satisfy you, you reached into your robe, pulling from your shoulders and upper chest. Even this was not enough. You pulled off your robe, and then the rest of your clothes, and great sections of your skin sloughed off with them. Blood poured from your body to the ground, forming a puddle around you as you fell to your knees. You shouted again, and this time I did not ignore you.

“Gideon!” I blinked, and you were in front of me, whole again. Your shredded, bleeding double was still there behind you, but now that I could see the real thing its falseness was obvious. Your face was a rictus of fear, and I dimly wondered why. Didn’t we always know this was my fate? Didn’t you always tell me this was all I was worth? You turned to look behind you. “Goddammit Alecto, pull us out _now!_ _”_

“Not yet! Five minutes thirty.”

You turned back to me, wild-eyed and desperate. You reached out and put your hands on either side of my face. That shook something within me. You never touched me — never touched _anyone_ — unless you had to. I was in the chapel, and I was in the ship, and I was in both, and I was in neither, and I distantly knew that this should matter.

“Gideon,” you pleaded, “come back. Don’t sink in to it. Don’t let go.”

“I… let go of what?” I said with lungs I wasn’t sure I had.

“Me. Hold on to me if that’s all you can find. Please. Please.” I placed my hands on your biceps and held onto your arms. Behind you, the desecrated mockery stood, staring at us without any face left, just a single eyeball remaining. It raised its hands, and behind me I heard the din of dozens of constructs forming. My hands clasped tighter. They were grabbing at me, a hundred hands at once, pulling, pulling me away from you. I held on to you as tight as I could, and you kept your hands wrapped around my head, one buried in my hair, the other on the nape of my neck, holding me close.

“Five minutes forty!”

I was nineteen years old. I was eighty years old. I was an infant. I had been dead for a hundred years. I clung to you. The vision of the ship was gone. So was the chapel. We were surrounded by the inky red-black void of gore and corpses and nothingness. Something was pulling at me, but I didn’t think it was the skeletons anymore. Perhaps it was the corpses. Perhaps it was nobody at all.

You… I knew you. I was certain of very little anymore, but I was certain of you.

“Harrow?”

“It’s me, it’s me, Gideon, please, hold on.”

It was so hard to hear anything over the cacophonous din of screaming dead. It was so hard to speak through the pain of the water boiling me from the inside out. My grip loosened, and my hands slid a little further down your arms.

“I don’t… I can’t… I think they want me to go now.”

Something about that marshaled you. Your face lit up with fury, and the sight comforted me. “No! You are not letting go. I have not released you from my service yet, Gideon Nav, and I am ordering you to hold!”

A spark lit inside of me. I slid one hand around so that instead of holding your arm, it was looped over your shoulder, clutching your back. The other I brought underneath your arm and wrapped around your waist, pulling our bodies together in an embrace, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the inches between our lips, clinging fiercely to you as the pull grew stronger and stronger.

You were sobbing now. Tears ran down your face, blurring your skull paint. I wanted to wipe them away with my thumb, but I would have to let go of you to do that, and you had told me to hold on.

“It’s me. Stay. I need you to stay.”

The pull turned into a tear, the force so powerful that the skin of my back ripped away from my body. The water should have turned to steam long ago, but still it became hotter, boiling inside my sinuses and my throat and my lungs. I have endured agonies far worse than any person should have to experience, but this was greater than any of them. I was sobbing with pain and fear, insensate.

“Five minutes fifty!”

“Harrow, please,” I begged through desperate tears, although I could not say what I was begging for. Regardless, you understood.

“I’m here, I’ve got you, just please, please, hold on!”

“I can’t — “

“You can! You will! You are going to hold, and I am _never_ letting go of you again!”

You kissed me. Your eyes closed, and my bloodshot eyes widened. I could have sworn that my heart stopped. The void around me erupted with golden light. It glowed with a warmth that soothed my soul, despite the boiling heat of the water, and it cast gentle shadows across your face as your lips — unmoving, pursed into a fine, desperate line — pressed hard against my own.

My grip failed. The awful might of that pull yanked me away from you, and I knew that I was lost.

Time moved in slow motion. I saw the source of the golden light; a brilliant thread, intricately decorated, emerging from my chest. It extended all the way behind you, and it fluttered as it was pulled along with me. The end of it whipped past you, untethered. You reached out, and just before it could fly out of reach, you grabbed it.

I stopped moving with a violent jerk. My head snapped back hard enough to give me whiplash, and my limbs were pulled backwards along with it. You clung desperately to the filigree chain that connected us. The force was so great, you could barely resist it. The light was slipping inevitably out of your grip. But you held on, just for a moment, just for a few short, precious seconds.

“Six minutes!”

I blacked out as the thrusters roared to life, the ghost of your lips engraved upon mine.


	6. The Ninth Renewed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: A little over a week ago I uploaded some changes to the first five chapters. Long story short: I removed the framing device that I had been weaving throughout the story. The more I wrote, the more I realized that it just wasn't working, so I removed it. In most chapters this only resulted in some minor changes to the wording, but the first chapter has an entirely new intro and a new scene added to the end. However, none of this alters the actual story, so you won't be lost if you don't read the changes.

I woke up gasping. A panicky fight or flight response surged through my body, and I tried to push myself away from the looming feeling of danger. I fell off the edge of something and tumbled to the floor. The room was a swirl of color. Trying to stand up was a bust — I immediately stumbled forward and fell to my hands and knees. The world around me wasn’t even registering.

I was dying. I had died. I was drowning. I was burning. I hyperventilated and tried to scramble back to my feet. Still no dice. Lurching nausea pervaded my gut.

“ _Griddle!”_ your alarmed voice came, _“Griddle, calm down, let me take control.”_

I tried to, I really did, but the blind instinct was too strong. Trying to relieve the burning in my gut, I curled up into a ball, kneeling with my weight on the back of my legs, doubled over, clutching my stomach. A high pitched groaning was escaping me, and I had no idea how long I had been making that noise.

You tried to wrest control from me, and I could feel it, could feel the pulling, but instinctively resisted. My head pulled out from where it was curled into my body and whipped back and forth, trying to take stock of what was around me as I came back into awareness of reality, the vague existential panic turning into a more immediate, paranoid one, my body trying to figure out where the danger was, why it felt like this.

A huge window was in front of me, and a landscape of pale brown rock whipped past in an indistinct blur. Okay, I was in a room, a room, where was I? Window, bed, desk, drawers, end table, two doors. Your room on the Hermes. Even as my grip on reality returned, the nausea grew worse and worse.

The door. The bathroom. I pulled myself to my feet — successfully this time — and stumbled towards the door. Luckily I didn’t fall, but it was a near thing, and I collapsed forwards against the wall, pressing my palms against it on either side of my head. A drunkenly grasping hand slapped against the wall until it found the button for the door. The wall in front of me slid open — oh, okay, that was the door. I half-walked, half-fell to the side of the toilet, collapsing to my knees and almost smacking my face against the side of the bowl.

I retched violently, but nothing came out.

“ _Deep breaths.”_ I did my best to listen to you, but I kept getting interrupted by more retching. Eventually I relaxed enough that my deathgrip over my body eased, and you were able to pry control away from me. A couple trillion pascals of tension flooded out of my body as you relaxed away the painful tightness that twisted through my whole being. _“We’re alright, Griddle, we’re alive. You’re alive.”_

The sound of another door sliding open came from the direction of your room. Footsteps, which started out calm but quickened as they grew closer.

“Are you alright, Ninth?” came Warden’s dry voice from behind us. You turned yourself around, going from kneeling over the toilet to sitting, leaning back against the side of the bathtub with your legs sprawled out in front of you.

“The picture of health,” you croaked, throat hoarse from all my dry heaving.

“How are you feeling?” Warden extricated a small pack of medical supplies and examination tools from somewhere within their robes and bent over to poke and prod at me.

“Much better once you stop doing that,” I groaned, and swatted their hand away. They harrumphed at me, but acquiesced at least partially and stopped trying to hold my eye open. I guessed that was the best I could hope for, as they ignored my halfhearted attempts to flinch away from the tube-shaped instrument they pressed against the side of my head.

“Are we on the Ninth?” you asked. Warden put away their implements, apparently satisfied, and stood.

“Yes. We’re making a low to the ground approach, to avoid detection. There’s a strong chance the Necrolord Prime has put out a wanted persons alert for us, we need to remain discreet. I contacted the princess and let her know the situation. We’ve arranged a rendezvous point not far outside the Ninth proper, we’ll be arriving shortly.”

“Which one?” I asked, which was a very stupid question, given the circumstances of our escape, but I figure extreme trauma was a pretty good excuse.

“Coronabeth.”

“Ahh,” I nodded, “the good twin.”

They ignored my quip, but you couldn’t help yourself, _“Really Griddle?”_

“ _Am I wrong?”_ You did not offer any protest to that, so I assumed that you agreed with my obviously correct analysis of the Tridentarii. Warden offered a hand, but I shook my head. “Just give me a minute.”

“I’ll let you know when we’re about to land.” Warden left the room, hitting the button to close the bathroom door behind them and give us some privacy.

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to center myself. Disorientation still persisted in my mind, stubborn and nauseating. I was unstuck in time and space, slowly floating back to where I was supposed to be, but not quite there yet. Part of my mind was still in the River, the memories of my nightmare fading away like, well, a dream. There was one part however, that was not fading. It was not sand slipping through my fingers, it was a brand on my brain, burning hotter every second. My body shuddered with the recollection of the pain, but it was overshadowed by the memory of your lips on mine.

You had _kissed_ me. You had kissed _me._ Even just thinking those words was surreal — my brain resisted the thought, like trying to recite words in a language you don’t understand.

“ _Alright, Harrow, talk. What the hell was that?”_ I couldn’t even bring myself to say the words out loud. I struggled to my feet, almost tumbling right back over in the process but managing to stay upright

“ _I’m not sure. Some kind of energy tied us together, but I don’t understand what it was. It appeared similar to the way you perceive thanergy, but that doesn’t make any sense; the River is full of thanergy, we were surrounded by it, why would that be distinct from the rest?”_

Your ability to miss the point was a goddamn marvel.

“ _That’s not what I was talking about, dumbass. I’m talking about what you did.”_

Your response was so measured, I could almost picture you rehearsing it. _“I said what I needed to say to ensure that you remained grounded.”_

I paced back and forth in the cramped bathroom. _“Sure. You have a lot of fucking nerve, by the way, talking about how I’m still in your service, talking about duty. But that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”_

“ _Listen, Griddle,”_ you deflected, _“it’s important for us to stay focused. We’re going to be landing soon, and — “_

“You kissed me!” I snapped. I stopped my pacing short and held very still. I wasn’t going to let you do that. I wasn’t going to let you pretend that it didn’t happen. I was absolutely done with you being all mysterious and aloof around me. I stood frozen, waiting for you to respond, and I did not plan to move again until you did.

It took you a long time, and when you finally spoke, it was stilted and awkward. _“I… I have overstepped.”_

I sighed, releasing the tension that bound me in place. My fingers ran through my hair. I placed my hands on the countertop on either side of the sink and leaned my weight on them. Part of me wanted to say yes, you had overstepped, to really lay into you and make you feel guilty, but I knew that was a shitty, juvenile urge.

“That’s not — you didn’t — “ I huffed, the right words eluding me. I wasn’t even sure what I was attempting to get out of this confrontation. An apology? Definitely not. “I’m not pissed at you for that.”

“ _But you_ _ **are**_ _angry with me._ _”_

Was I? I was pretty sure that I was. There was a question implicit in your words, and I did not know how to answer it. I didn’t say anything. I stepped away from control of my body. I couldn’t lose control unless you took it from me, but I retreated as far as I could, trying to make it clear that it was open if you wanted it. I wasn’t sure that you would.

You looked up slowly, still leaning your weight on your hands. When you saw your face in the mirror, you froze. Your lips parted. My face looked back with your dark eyes. It was equally as strange as when I saw your face with my eyes on the Mithraeum. Because it wasn’t _just_ the eyes. It was my body, but with your tight, serious expression, your intense focus, all these little details that made it so visibly not me. Something about the sight of me captivated you. You stood up straight, and raised one hand to touch your face. You ran your fingers along the lines of it, exploring reverently, before bringing your palm to rest against your — my — cheek.

“I thought I would never see this face again.” Something twisted deep in my chest, and I bowed my head, squeezing my eyes shut, trying so desperately not to cry. I didn’t move my hand from my face. _“You were right, Griddle. It was selfish of me to do what I did, just so that I might get to see you again. But that’s the price you paid. You gave me my life, and now I get to decide what to do with it. You’re not always going to like what I choose.”_

“And what did you choose?” I whispered.

“ _I chose to say no.”_ I squeezed my eyes closed tighter. I felt them filling with tears. Perhaps it was an instinct, to hide those tears from you. It was what I had done my whole life. _“Don’t hide from me, Gideon. I want to see you.”_

I opened my eyes. The moment I did, the tears I had been restraining slid down my cheeks. All the things I wanted to say remained choked in my throat. I knew that if I tried to speak they would come out all wrong. Instead, I maintained unblinking eye contact with my reflection as I turned my face into the hand you had placed there and pressed my trembling lips to the center of my palm in a tear-stained kiss. I let go of the reins, and those eyes transformed from gold to coal. A deep blush lit up my cheek — _your_ cheek. You dragged your fingers down your face until they came to rest with your index and middle fingers on your cheek, your ring finger on your mouth, and your thumb on the underside of your jaw. You took a shaky breath, turned your hand around, and slowly, deliberately, kissed the back of it.

I could’ve gasped, had I been in control of my lungs. It _felt_ like I gasped. There was a place inside me, an empty space for the hope I had buried beneath the pool at Canaan house, with closed eye and stilled brain. It yearned to be full once again. Ached for it. I held down the hope that sought to emerge from the water and fill that space, drowned it beneath the cold salt, for I could not bear to let it free again. But it struggled, it struggled.

Your lips tattooed themselves against my skin, and I felt it all the way through my body. Was that how it felt for you? Did you want like I wanted?

“Harrow,” I choked. I backed up slowly until I hit the door behind me, and I leaned my weight against it. My reflection met me step for step, and I kept staring at it from the other side of the room. “Harrow I… I want… “

“ _What do you want, Gideon?”_

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back until it knocked against the door. “You already know what.”

“ _Do I?”_

“I know you remember what happened after I woke up in your body. I know you remember what I said to Ianthe.” You paused, and I squeezed my eyes shut tighter. I couldn’t wait to hear what you were going to say. I couldn’t bear to hear what you were going to say.

You said, _“I didn’t want to presume.”_ I blurted out a laugh, the tension leaving me as I cackled way harder than was probably warranted. It was like there was no middle ground for me, I whipped straight from crying to full-on manic laughter — the same volume of emotion, just poured into a different container. Your ability to make literally anything sound awkward as shit was truly remarkable. I settled, still giggling a little. _“Would you show me?”_

“What do you mean?” I asked you for an answer that I already knew.

“ _I think I know what you want, Gideon, but would you show me anyway? Would you do that for me?”_

That wasn’t fair, Harrow. There was nothing I would not do, no way I could deny you when you asked me that way. But I’ll admit, I was scared. I burned with wanting, overflowed with it, and all I could think is that it would be too much. That I would be too needy or too sexual or too raw, and you wouldn’t want it. Wouldn’t want me. There has always been so _much_ of me, and you have never been a lover of excess.

But you asked. So I showed you.

I pressed the side of my hand back to my lips and kissed it. Trailed my fingers lazily down my neck, then further, until my palm rested flat over my heart. Let it rest there for a moment, feeling it beat, fast, but steady. I dragged it down over my breast — my breath hitched — then along my side, down to my waist and my hips. Its path continued, up and over to my stomach, where I slipped it into my robes and under my shirt, resting it against the flat plane of my skin, tracing the lines of my abs. My other hand I brought upwards, but I hesitated just below my breast. I knew where this was going. You could feel everything my body felt, and if this kept going much longer, you would feel me getting wet. I couldn’t bring myself to cross that line.

“ _Show me.”_ Even when it wasn’t spoken aloud, your voice sounded breathy, but it was full of a demanding resolve that made me shiver. I cupped my breast through my shirt, my touch tentative and self-conscious. I played with it like I would when I was on my own, and dug my nails lightly into my stomach. I kept my eyes closed; I don’t think I could have handled seeing myself in the mirror. It wasn’t much stimulation through two layers of cloth, so I slid my hand under my shirt and pushed my bandeau out of the way. The hand against my stomach flexed instinctively. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to move it lower. I already felt like I was going to burst into flame with embarrassment — not being able to see your reaction was torturous. My mind summoned an image of you staring at me, unimpressed, and I couldn’t shake the feeling.

“Harrow I can’t, I — “ Your eyes flicked open, and you stared intently at your reflection in the mirror, head tilted back, lips parted with labored breaths. The light touch on my breast turned into a rough squeeze and my other hand moved to press against my waistband.

“I’ve got the gist of it,” you rumbled, and slipped your fingers into your pants.

“ _Harrow!”_ I gasped. The moment you took over the feeling completely changed, and I felt pleasure course through me. You did not touch yourself — touch me — self-consciously. Your fingers dipped lower and parted your labia, tracing along the inside, from your clit down to your entrance. Your touches were clumsy, and I could tell that the size of my fingers was throwing you off, but you were rough and confident and I was so incredibly glad I wasn’t in control because I knew that my noises would have been loud and embarrassing. Your chest heaved up and down, and it was so alien to watch my body in the mirror, moving in a way that I did not move, staring in a way that I did not stare. You pushed your fingers inside, and for a moment my mind screamed at me — no, this was wrong, they were wrong, they were too thick, too calloused, they weren’t _yours_ — but it still sent ripples of pleasure through my body, and that gaze, that gaze was yours.

“Do you have any idea?” you panted quietly, “Any idea how perfect you are?” Your fingers moved faster, hand switching to your other breast and pinching your nipple hard enough to hurt. I wanted to say something back, wanted to answer you, but I couldn’t. It was too much, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. “I could write a textbook on the shape of your anatomy,” you continued, “teach a class on the muscles in your back, your arms, your _stomach._ _”_

You cut yourself off with a gasp as you brushed your thumb over your clit. You were leaning heavily against the door for support, hips rocking back and forth into your hand. You were getting close, I could feel the telltale signs, and I almost wanted to warn you, but interrupting even a single moment of this was unthinkable. It was quick and rough and dirty, fucking yourself against the door with your hand up your shirt, and it was exactly what I wanted. I don’t think either of us have ever wanted something gentle. It’s not in our nature.

“I think you do know. I think you know _exactly_ what you look like. You’re shameless,” you growled, and _fuck,_ hearing you call me that did something to me I cannot describe. You said it like it was the most beautiful and filthy compliment the universe had ever created. “This is what you want, isn’t it? For somebody to look at you? To want you? To fuck you? Utterly shameless. But I will _give_ you what you want.” I made a desperate, pleading little noise, somewhere deep in my mind. I had never seen you like this before in any situation other than anger and pain, but it felt completely natural. You were always an inferno, but fire brings more than just pain and destruction — it brings life, warmth, and it was only right that you would burn me from within. I relinquished myself, and let the blaze overtake me.

You kept perfect, unbearable eye contact as you cried out and came. The rhythm of your hips stuttered, and I shuddered helplessly as your pleasure coursed through me. Your movements slowly juddered to a halt as the aftershocks passed, and your legs wobbled as you relied on the door behind you to keep you upright.

I took control. I wanted to feel it properly, to control all the little muscle movements that kept me balanced as my legs shook, to be the one heaving air into my lungs as I recovered. It was beautiful, the unsteadiness, the ache. For the first time in a very long while, I felt properly grounded in my own body. But it was more than that. For a brief moment, it was as if the separation between us was thinner, as if I could reach across and hold your hand. Truly, properly together. I clung to that feeling, clung to you, not wanting to let the moment pass.

And you felt the same way. Your burned with deep, primal satisfaction, and reveled in how thoroughly you had undone me.

My breath was heavy and satisfied, my eyes lidded and drunk. There were no words to say, only a divine closeness, a connection that I reveled in. For the first time since I woke up, I wondered if things might actually work out. If we could actually do this. If I could be yours, and you mine.

After a long silence, my labored breaths the only noise that filled the room, I said, “Harrow, I — “

The door slid open behind me and I yelped as the support I was resting upon disappeared and I fell flat on my back. I groaned — that metal floor was _not_ forgiving. Warden stood above me, looking down at me dispassionately.

“We’re about to land,” they deadpanned. They turned to leave, but before they walked away, they looked back at me and said in a voice that sounded genuinely sincere, “Congratulations, by the way. Maybe pick somewhere a little more soundproof next time.” The door to your room slid shut behind them.

For a long, pregnant moment, neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.

I burst out laughing.

“ _Griddle!”_ you protested, mortified. I only laughed harder, all that built up emotion releasing in a manic cackle. _“Griddle, this is not funny!”_

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I wheezed, “this is hysterical. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“ _Well I’m glad_ _ **somebody**_ _finds this amusing,_ _”_ you grumbled. And I did Harrow, I really did. I kept giggling as I pushed myself to my feet and wiped the tears from my eyes.

“Alright, let’s go,” I said, still breathless from laughing.

“ _Actually, before we do… would you do something for me Griddle?”_

“That’s a stupid question.”

“ _Oh, yes, of course,”_ you said, suddenly self-conscious and awkward, _“my apologies, I — “_

“That meant yes, Harrow.”

“ _Oh…“_ you took a moment to muster yourself and remember what you wanted to say, _“I know this is your body, not mine, but… would you be willing to wear face paint? It would be a great comfort to me.”_

I smiled, “Of course, my mistress of carnal delights, but I do have one condition. I want you to be the one to put it on.”

You took control, my broad smile turning into your small, almost shy one. “Gladly.”

* * *

When the ramp descended, we exited the Hermes, decked — if you’ll excuse the term — to the fucking nines. My skull paint had never looked so crisp and clean before, probably because I never gave enough of a shit to learn how to do it as well as you. We grabbed the biggest, most uncomfortably baggy robe you owned, which meant that on my body it looked perfectly fitted. My two hander was sheathed by my side. I desperately wished we still had my sunglasses, to complete the picture.

The landscape outside the pit of the Ninth house proper was a desolate wasteland of rock and frigid wind. Gravelly stone crunched underfoot as you stepped off the walkway and returned to the Ninth for the first time in almost a year. You closed your eyes and took a long, slow breath. I couldn’t say I was quite as relieved to be home. The frostbitten kiss of that sharp air stung your cheeks, and if nothing else, the familiarity of it was comforting.

Not far away was a familiar shuttle — the same one that you had seen when you first ran into Camilla, Coronabeth, and Judith back during your tenure on the Mithraeum. It somehow managed to look even more beat up and crappy than it did before. And walking towards us, out of that familiar shuttle, was a familiar face.

“Well, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes,” said the Crown Princess of Ida. She looked _different._ She shrugged on a heavy overcoat, but before she did, I saw that she had built up some serious muscle in her arms — she still had nothing on me, of course, but it was a respectable amount. Her long, curly hair had been cropped short in a plain, practical cut, pulled back in a ponytail with a single errant, looping curl escaping and hanging in front of her face. But more than any physical change, she carried herself differently in a way that was subtle but immediately apparent. She had always come across as confident, but that confidence no longer felt arrogant or posturing; it was quieter, more self-assured. Everything about her was a little more weathered than the last time I had seen her, although no less effervescent. I was about to respond when it became clear that she wasn’t speaking to us.

“It’s good to see you princess,” Warden said, and the two of them embraced. They held each other warmly, familiarly, and when they broke apart they shared a look that was more fond than I thought Warden was capable of being.

“Maybe one day you’ll stop getting yourself in trouble, Camilla,” she smirked. Warden’s smile dropped, and Coronabeth noticed immediately, shifting to a look of concern. “Are you alright?”

They shook their head. “I’m… it’s a bit complicated to explain. I’ll tell you later.” Coronabeth lingered on their face, searching for discontent, but when she found nothing, she turned to look at us, and that beaming smile returned.

“Ninth! It’s good to see you up and about. Carting your body around for months on end was a little depressing, I must say.” Before I could muster a response she pulled me into a bone-crushingly tight hug. It felt like the air was being squeezed out of me.

“Yeah, well, it was a little depressing being dead.” I wheezed. She released me and I sucked in a grateful breath of air as she moved her hands to rest firmly on my biceps and stepped back until she was an arm’s length away, looking intently at my face.

“And Reverend Daughter, what news of my sister? How is Ianthe?” her voice grew more serious. The moment you took control, you couldn’t help but go very stiff, subtly trying to shift away from the grip on your arms.

“She is… well.” you said, each word coming out hesitantly, with no flow to them. I was glad that you were the one talking, because I had a few choice words to say about Ianthe, and I doubted that Coronabeth would be pleased to hear them. Coronabeth sighed and let go of you, whereupon you immediately took a step back, fleeing from the possibility that somebody might deign to touch you again.

“I’ve missed her terribly,” Coronabeth said quietly.

“Your separation has not been for nothing. Your sister has slain a Beast that even the Emperor’s strongest hands, blessed with a myriad’s worth of experience, could not. She destroyed a foe that was the end of entire planets, alone, when we thought ourselves routed.”

I could not quite parse the look in Coronabeth’s eye. Pride, certainly, but there was something tremendously sad underneath that pride that I didn’t know what to make of. But then again, I never did understand the profoundly odd relationship the Tridentarius twins had.

“A very touching reunion, to be sure, but we don’t have time to waste, children.” Alecto stepped off of the walkway behind us. Coronabeth turned to face her, and her expression steeled.

“So. That’s her, then?”

“I am me, indeed. Although less so right now than I’m accustomed to.”

“Princess,” Warden cut in, “any updates about Blood of Eden? Anything we should be concerned about?”

Coronabeth nodded, and pulled a small tablet out of one of her coat pockets. “I’ve been monitoring their chatter through the backdoor I set up in their system,” she explained to me, which I appreciated, since I had no idea what had been going on, “They’ve been relatively quiet ever since their big attack after we left Canaan house — they took a pretty big hit in the skirmish — but I think they’re gearing up for something big. Their fleet has built back up, and there’s been a lot of talk, but I haven’t been able to figure out what the plan is.” She turned to Warden with an apologetic expression, “They found my backdoor and cut it off, so I can’t listen in anymore, unfortunately. The commander decided to leave us a little message before he closed off my access.”

She tapped away at the tablet, until an audio file began to play.

“Miss Tridentarius. Miss Hect.” The voice that came out of those speakers was not at all what I expected. It was quieter, for one thing, and far warmer. It was the smooth, self-satisfied tone of a man who has you strapped down to a table, calmly sipping exorbitantly expensive whiskey as he explains, in intimate, loving detail, exactly how he plans to vivisect you. “I must commend you for your little workaround, it was quite clever. However, I do wish you hadn’t taken the exact information you had; I rather enjoyed your company, but I believe you know that I can’t let you walk away with that knowledge.” Here he paused, and the strangely enrapturing cadence of his voice made me lean in, expecting more. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

The audio cut off. We stood there, listening only to the wind.

“Well he seems like a bit of a dick,” I opined.

“Well, he isn’t, that is to say — “ Coronabeth began, struggling for diplomacy in her words.

“Yes, he is.” Warden cut her off.

“Does that change our plans?” You asked.

Warden shook their head, “Not yet. But we will need to be careful once we go off-planet. Coronabeth, what’s the size of their fleet at this point?”

“About as big as a cohort legion.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“ _And that means…”_ you asked.

“ _It means they have a shitload of firepower. The entirety of the Cohort is only twelve legions.”_ I was going to leave it there, but something occurred to me. I turned to face Alecto. “Wait a second, you were there before the resurrection, right?”

“I was.”

“Then is that guy right? Did the Emperor really kill everybody, just so that he could gain power?” I needed to know. It didn’t make sense to me, that the Emperor would do that. It felt too out of character. And here in front of me I had the only other person in the entire universe who could remember the world before the resurrection.

“Lies,” she snarled, the sound chillingly vicious and feral, “of course those filthy traitors would spin it that way. John and I were left with no choice.”

“So he _did_ kill them?” you asked. You sounded like you were about to throw up.

“We were facing the fire. We did what we had to do. And they could have prevented it! They could have saved them! But they turned their back on their homeworld the moment it needed them most. They think themselves pure because they did not strike the final blow, but they killed humanity all the same.”

Warden cautiously said, “If you’re not on their side, and you’re not on the Emperor’s… What _do_ you want?”

“John _owes_ me.”

I was pretty sure I was making an idiotic, confused expression, but my mind was trying to reach conclusions that seemed odd to me. “Hold on. So you want to kill my deadbeat dad, and you don’t want to work with the asshole brigade. Alecto, are we… are we on the same side?”

She looked at me, her expression impenetrably neutral. “It’s possible.”

I said, “Fucking hell, Alecto, this could have been so much easier if you had just told us what you wanted instead of being a dick about it.”

Annoyance flared within you, and you said, at exactly the same time, your voice overlapping with mine, “Quit prevaricating and give us a straight answer.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth, eyes wide. We had both spoken out loud at the same time. That shouldn’t have been possible. How the fuck was that possible? We only had one mouth with which to form the words, yet we formed two different sounds simultaneously, like we were some kind of throat singer. Coronabeth looked utterly baffled. Warden and Alecto both looked grave.

“What the hell was that?” I said, in an extremely deep and serious voice that definitely did not come out as a squeak. Definitely not.

“We need to hurry,” Warden said, “the barrier is breaking down.”

“How long do we have?” I asked.

“Hours,” Alecto supplied. “Now, Gideon, Harry, Cori, lets quit dawdling, shall we?”

“Cori?” I mouthed to Coronabeth. She shrugged, looking more than a little put off.

“Yes, let’s get moving. We don’t have time to waste,” you said, and we set off towards the Ninth.

* * *

The ninth house came into view in all its dubious glory as we reached the ledge. It was an inverse stalactite, like somebody had driven a great spike straight through the rock, then pulled it out and left a jagged hole behind. The uppermost section was divided into layers of terraces, most of them farms, making use of what little sunlight the Ninth gets. They descended unevenly inwards like a jumbled spiral staircase built for a giant.

Built into the rock at the bottom of the terraces was a rusted metal door — the Ninth’s hangar bay. It held precisely one ship, which was never used, and had been the focus of many of my earlier escape attempts before I realized that it was a trap, too carefully watched to ever be feasible. Further down, the great edifice of Drearburh was hewn into the rock, carved to loom imposingly and look very serious by a group of extremely goth nuns who were way too committed to their aesthetic to build anything that a normal fucking person would want to use. Its foundations descended deep into the crust, disappearing into the blackness, where the Ninth narrowed enough to become essentially a glorified mineshaft, tapering inwards exponentially towards the event horizon of the Tomb.

I surveyed the scene as the others caught up. Warden joined us first, tapping away at a tablet that looked like one of the ones from the helm of the Hermes. Upon seeing my questioning look they lifted it a bit and said, “It’s entangled with the ship. If Pyrrha tries to contact the Hermes it will relay her message to us, even once we’re underground.”

The others followed not far behind, and once they were with us Warden said, “What’s the plan, Reverend Daughter? This is your territory.”

You looked upon your domain, face set into a comically serious far-off gaze, your hair blowing in the wind. “Stealth. No matter how loyal the Ninth might be to me, they will not stand by while we attempt to open the tomb. Besides, I believe that you may be correct Warden, that the Kindly Prince will have put out a wanted persons alert. I have been absent for many months; if they see that I have returned, we will have a very difficult time finding a moment alone.” Everybody else murmured their agreement, but you continued inwardly, _“Griddle, this is your show.”_

“ _It is?”_

“ _You’re the one who tried to escape it eighty-seven times. You know how to go unnoticed far better than I do.”_

I turned back to the others. “Follow me.”

I clambered down the rim until I was hanging off the edge with my hands, and then I let go, falling onto the nearest terrace below and immediately dropping into a roll to break my fall. After I had recovered and dusted myself off, I waited directly below the rim, arms outstretched, and motioned for Alecto to jump. The others I trusted to make it themselves, but I did not trust your body to make the drop without breaking your twiggy legs. When Alecto let go, I caught her out of the air, the laughable weight of your body not hitting me hard enough to be much of a bother. Coronabeth and Warden followed close behind.

There were no skeletons around working the field, since the fields towards the top got more light, and tended to grow faster, meaning they always got harvested first. I could hear the sound of bones clacking together and soil being turned below us as they went about their work. It was still fairly early in the morning, or at least what passed for morning in the irritatingly long day/night cycle of the Ninth, and I hoped that enough people would be asleep that we wouldn’t have too hard a time. My mind raced, running through the possibilities for routes we could take. I had escaped along a similar path to this when I was much younger, and I didn’t yet understand that there was nowhere in the wasteland for me to escape to.

We crept down the stairs to the next set of terraces below, also empty of workers. The level below us had doors set into the cliff face behind them, leading back into the twisting stairways of the Ninth’s interior. This field was occupied, however, by three different skeletons.

“Warden,” I whispered, “can you get us past them without anyone knowing they’ve been tampered with?”

They considered this for a second, lips pursed, brow furrowed. They sucked on their teeth and said, “I can try, but I’m not a bone adept. I don’t know if I can achieve that level of subtlety.”

“ _I think I can do it.”_

“ _I thought you couldn’t do necromancy in my body?”_

“ _Just… could you shift our vision so I can see the thanergy?”_

I let my vision lose focus. It was still an unintuitive process, shifting my perception that way. My mind resisted it. But after a moment of making some truly strange facial expressions that earned me weird looks from Warden and Coronabeth, we were once again seeing the world in a wash of bright blue. I winced and blinked my eyes at the brightness — it was so much more vibrant here than on the ship or the ash planet. The world was painted with bright, glowing color, concentrated heavily in certain spots, like the skeletons. Thanergy flowed around and through them, threads tugging their joints into motion like muscles, cores of light pulsing inside their ribs like the hearts that they didn’t have.

You extended a hand. The light flickered, our perception almost snapping back to normal, but you held it. I felt a tug deep in my body, a sensation not unlike dipping my hand into cool water, and the thanergy that infused them began to flow and change. I realized that this was what necromancy felt like. It was a twist of power, of control, a rush of command over the world around me. It was breathtaking.

The thanergy concentrated in the top of each skeleton’s spine began to writhe, and the vertebrae in their neck grew, expanded, until they were fused together, leaving the skeletons completely unable to turn their heads. This didn’t seem to bother them, and they adjusted to the change completely unfazed. Instead of turning their neck back and forth to place picked vegetables in the wheelbarrow behind them, they pulled the wheelbarrows around, so that they were on the opposite side of the line they were picking, and they could simply toss their harvest forwards, not needing to adjust the direction they were facing at all. And as it so happened, the direction they were now intently focused on was pointed away from where we needed to be.

“ _Is that what it always feels like for you?”_ I asked, feeling more than a little breathless.

You smirked, _“Well don’t sound too impressed Griddle, you might inflate my ego.”_

We hurried down the stairs, as silent as possible, and crept through the doorway, out of the open air and into the dark, claustrophobic corridors I had grown up in. It was rare for anybody to come up here — the skeletons were perfectly capable of handling things on their own — so we descended the endless, winding steps unafraid.

BLA-BLANG! BLA-BLANG! BLA-BLANG!

The harsh cry of the first bell cut through the corridors, muffled by distance. I motioned to the others to follow and ducked back into a cobwebbed side passage that I knew nobody would check.

“Alright,” I whispered, “we need to wait for everybody to get out of bed and head to the mess hall. We should have a window while they’re all distracted.”

We waited patiently. I wasn’t generally a patient person, but when it came to this? When it came to this I was a regular zen master. I had spent so much time hiding away, from you, or from Crux — from anybody, really. During one of my escape attempts I spent fourteen hours squeezed into a ventilation shaft as I waited for my opening. This was nothing.

Behind me, I heard Warden and Coronabeth speaking in hushed tones, as Warden tried to explain their new identity. She nodded along, and asked a few questions. I had one of my own.

“You decided on a name yet?”

“I think I have, actually. I like what you’ve been calling me. It feels… appropriate. Warden. My name is Warden.”

Everybody murmured their understanding.

I was intimately familiar with how long it took to sweep my cell, get dressed, and head to the mess hall, so I knew exactly when it was safe to slip out of our hiding spot and continue down the stairs, without any need for a clock. Our path led us down precariously steep staircases and winding hallways, until all of a sudden I found myself directly in front of the door of my cell. I stopped short. It hadn’t even occurred to me that we’d pass by it.

“ _Griddle — “_

“Just… just give me a minute.” I said, and everyone patiently obeyed.

“ _Griddle, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”_

I swung the door open, and inhaled sharply when I saw what lay inside. The bed was made. There were freshly cleaned clothes on the hooks. There were books that weren’t mine on a nightstand that hadn’t been there before. A pair of glasses rested atop them.

Somebody else lived here now.

I passed my gaze over all the little accoutrements of a life that wasn’t mine. The bed was new — it still didn’t look comfortable, but it was bigger than my tiny cot. It was made sloppily, the covers hanging over the edge, almost touching the ground, rather than being tucked under the mattress. Judging by the covers, their books looked like pulpy historical romances. Their robes were all slightly different lengths, and they had neatly arranged them in order of shortest to longest. On the wall beside the cot was a little drawing scraped into the surface of the stone — a line, with a pair of hands and the top of somebody’s head above it, as if peering over a wall, their long nose extending down on the other side. I catalogued every little decoration, every trinket and treasure — there weren’t many — and tried to form a picture of their owner in my mind. I couldn’t.

“ _The Emperor fulfilled his promise. The Ninth has been renewed.”_

I walked through the doorway with tentative, careful steps. It was still gloomy and depressing, but it looked far homier than it ever had when I lived there. I had no possessions, nothing to decorate the room with, only my clothes, my sword, and a few skin mags I hid in the vent so Crux wouldn’t find them. I stood on my tip-toes and peered over. The mags were still there. The others shuffled in behind me, but I didn’t pay them much mind.

I don’t know why I felt such attachment to that room. My memories from when I lived in it were pretty uniformly bad. Being locked in, the heat turned off until I sobbed and begged from the cold. Curling up on my cot after being beaten by Crux. Lying there, reading my magazines, crying, because the glorious life they promised was so unreachably far away. But the attachment to it was there nonetheless. It was the only space in my entire childhood that had been _mine_ — even if it was frequently invaded, it still belonged to me.

A strange giddiness filled me. I would never have to stay another night in that shithole of a room. It was no longer mine. I didn’t have a cell on the Ninth anymore. I was free of it.

Footsteps approached hurridly from down the hallway.

“Shit,” I hissed. My head whipped back and forth. We’d be instantly spotted if we walked out the door.

I flung myself to the floor and scrambled beneath the bed. Coronabeth, Warden, and Alecto all quickly followed suit, and the covers flapped back into place only seconds before the footsteps entered the room.

“I thought I — “ a voice wondered, the rusty door creaking as they pushed it back and forth a bit. All four of us lay there, crammed into a space that should’ve fit two people at the absolute most. I had tried to lie flat on my back, but in order to fit, I had to shove myself up against the wall until I was mostly lying on my side. Coronabeth’s elbow was digging into my ribs, which sucked, and her breasts were pressed against my face, which did not. The footsteps came closer, walking right up next to the bed. I held my breath.

There was a sound of two pieces of plastic clacking together lightly, and I realized they must have been grabbing their glasses from the bedside table. The footsteps retreated out the door, shutting it behind them.

The four of us practically exploded out from under the bed, such was the force of our decompression.

“I _told_ you that was a bad idea, Griddle!” you hissed.

I climbed to my feet, and ignored you. I looked around the room one more time and said, “Alright, fuck this place. Let’s go.” I grabbed two pairs of robes off the hooks, tossed the longest one to Coronabeth, and the other to Warden. “They may not fit well, but make it work.”

Alecto and I both had fresh robes from your room on the Hermes, so we were set, but those two would need a little assistance. The robes were comically baggy on Warden, and laughably short on Coronabeth, but it would have to do.

We all put up our hoods and made our way to the outside of the mess hall, where a thin crowd of people was streaming out after breakfast. Some of them went off to work their duties around the House, but a good number made their way along the bridge towards the imposing gates of Drearburh. I let you take over — you were better than I was at pretending to be all reverent and holy and shit. You realized what I was going for and slipped into their number unnoticed.

I had never seen the Ninth look so alive. The number of people the Emperor had resurrected for you wasn’t _that_ high, so it wasn’t as if it was suddenly a bustling metropolis or anything, but… the new arrivals weren’t old. All of them were young, and they carried with them the vibrancy of youth, talking and joking and filling the air with chatter, where once it had been a solemn, reverential silence.

There were tears sliding down my face, I realized with a jolt of surprise, but they weren’t mine. You surveyed the crowd as surreptitiously as you could, taking in the sight of a house transformed. I gave you your moment, staying quietly in the back of my body while you absorbed everything, crying silently. Your hands were buried within the fabric of your robes, but you instinctively moved your fingers as if you were thumbing a set of knucklebones.

“ _Looks like you saved the world, my moonlight marquess.”_ I said. You didn’t respond, but I didn’t begrudge you that. With every step across that bridge you drank in the fruit of your labor. I could hear little snippets of conversation from the people around us — inane things, everyday trivial nonsense. It was beautiful. The weight of an entire lifetime of guilt eased off of your shoulders. Your debt was repaid. You had saved your House. You had done what you were created to do.

Our path led us through the gates of Drearburh, and I felt your breathing pick up as we moved with the congregation. I could tell that it was growing too much for you, so I took over. It was trivially easy to break away from the congregation, but to my surprise, the tears did not stop once I took over. I was the one moving around, but you were still crying. That couldn’t be a good sign.

You were still too out of it to guide us, and I thought you deserved your moment, so I did my best to lead us where we needed to go, although I did not remember the path nearly as well as you would have. I walked into a small room with a number of tables and shelves bearing all sorts of necromantic reagents and religious miscellanea that I never bothered to learn the purpose of. I expected there to be a door past one of the shelves towards the far end of the room, but when I got there, it was just another wall, with a table pushed up against it.

“Wrong room, my bad,” I whispered. We all turned around to leave, but before we could, the doors swung open, and two people walked through.

I froze. There was no time to react, to hide. We were standing right in the open.

The blind great-aunts, Aisamorta and Lachrimorta, walked through the door. They shuffled through the room, guided by memory, avoiding every table and shelf perfectly. All five of us held deathly still. Aisamorta approached a shelf close to the door and began touching each jar on it, counting under her breath as she went, in order to grab the right one without being able to read the labels. Lachrimorta walked towards us, intent on a shelf on the far wall behind us. I held my breath.

She was going to bump into me. Just barely, but it was going to happen. I shrunk away from her, pulling my arm tight against my body and leaning to the side, slowly, so slowly, so my robes did not rustle.

She passed by, her shoulder barely a centimeter away from hitting mine. I did not dare turn around to watch her. Aisamorta stretched to grab what she wanted from where it was wedged at the back of the shelf — she was a short woman even before she developed her osteoporotic hunch. I barely noticed her, too busy trying to surreptitiously glance over my shoulder and catch Lachrimorta in my peripheral vision.

The jar Aisamorta was reaching for tipped over and fell to the floor, shattering with a crash that reverberated like a cannon shot in the thick silence. Coronabeth and I flinched violently, but the sound of our movement was covered up by Aisamorta’s shriek.

“What have you done now?” Lachrimorta chastized, her voice so scratchy it shot all the way past sandpaper and landed in the realm of just rubbing handfuls of actual sand against something. She stomped over towards Aisamorta, passing right between Alecto and Warden, who remained perfectly still — they hadn’t even flinched when the jar broke. The two great-aunts convened by the shattered remnants of the jar and bickered with one another cattily. We had to get the hell out of there, all this noise was going to draw attention. Attention that wasn’t blind.

I crept towards the exit, using their raspy, screeching voices as cover for my footsteps. Right as we reached the door, Coronabeth bumped into the side of a table, loudly jostling its contents. All of us froze, and she winced, face set in an expression of exaggerated apology and nervousness.

“Who is that?” Lachrimorta demanded, “Get over here, we need somebody to clean up after my idiot sister.”

“You’re taller,” Aisamorta protested, “you should have been the one to get that jar!”

We walked away quickly, and the last we heard of them was a distant, “Hey, did they just leave? These new folk are so _rude,_ I’m telling you, no respect for their elders.”

When we got far enough away, I burst out into hysterical, bubbling laughter, my racing heart seeking an outlet for all that adrenaline. I tried to tamp it down, to kill the risk of giving us away, but I couldn’t stop it, and my attempts to suppress it made me sound like a serial killer.

You took over, putting your shoulders back and standing up straighter, and the laughter instantly stopped.

“I apologize for — “ you tried, but then the laughter came back. You were still in control, but my laughter kept going. You tried to suppress it, but you couldn’t. “I apologize for my host.” Even when you spoke, the laughter kept going. Coronabeth was staring at us with a mildly disturbed look on her face. Warden looked fascinated, as if cataloging the details for later study. Alecto looked vaguely amused.

Eventually I managed to wrestle my laughter under control, and leave you in charge. You sighed and gestured towards the end of the hall. “I’ll lead the way.”

* * *

Ianthe plugged the central console for the Mithraeum’s security hub back in after finishing her repairs, and watched the screens flicker to life. Teacher had asked her to fix it, as part of their efforts to get the Mithraeum up and running again — and hoping to see if it was even partially functional while the two impostors were on board, to glean some extra information. It had not been functional at all, but she got it working again. They were mostly doing repairs at the moment, still waiting to hear back from some of their Cohort contacts after putting out the alert.

She was at least grateful that her nose had healed after the impostor broke it. Her powers were returning, slowly but surely, and she was nearly back to full health, her bruises slowly fading away.

Ianthe scanned the various camera feeds, not entirely sure what she was searching for. One camera overlooked the war room, and she saw the Saint of Duty walk into the room, joining Teacher, who was sitting hunched over the display set into the table. He was still wearing those damn sunglasses. The set of headphones plugged into the console caught her eye.

A moment of consideration, then she put them on, sitting in the chair and switching the audio feed to the war room camera. The two of them were talking about some troop movement logistics. Boring, mundane stuff. She sighed, and was about to take the headphones off when the Saint of Duty said,

“Lord… _John._ I need to ask you something.”

The feed’s resolution was quite high, and Ianthe zoomed in to look at them closer. Teacher shifted in his chair, and looked at him curiously. “Of course, mate.”

“Why did you seal A.L. away?”

Teacher’s seat was facing towards the camera, so she was able to see his eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a hell of a question to ask, Gideon,” he said softly, “What brought this on?”

“Augustine and Joy were terrified of her. They worked with Blood of Eden on a hunch that she _might_ still be alive. And now they’re dead because of it. My friends are dead. I trust you, John, but… I need you to give me something. I knew A.L., and the woman I knew did not warrant that fear.”

That was the most words Ianthe had ever heard the Saint of Duty say at one time. It was curiously verbose for him. Ianthe leaned forward in her chair.

“I… yes. Yes, Gideon, I will tell you. You have earned at least that much from me. And I’m sorry that I have kept this from you for so long, but I need you to understand, I had no choice.”

Ianthe held her breath. There was no way in hell that Teacher would be okay with her hearing this. She kept listening anyway. She sat, rapt, as the Emperor of the Nine Houses told his Saint the truth he had kept buried beneath the rock for ten thousand years.

* * *

The door of the Locked Tomb was a flat wall of black stone hewn into the side of the landing at the very bottom of the Ninth, where the mineshaft terminated in a circular floor. Its builders had not bothered with intricate carvings or frightening imagery to convey its danger; they had built a monolith of awesome size, entirely flat and undecorated. It loomed above us. It was not intimidating in the way the gates of Drearburh were — it did not feel as if it was built to intimidate you. It was intimidating in the way a human might be intimidating to an insect, who knew that they could be crushed at any moment, and that the only thing keeping them alive was their tormentor’s apathy to their existence. There were pillars on either side, a thin line in the middle where the two doors met, and nothing else.

We stood before it, craning our necks to take in the size of it.

“So, do we just… walk in?” I asked, “You already broke all the locks, right Harrow?”

“They were designed to regenerate. I’ll need to undo them again.” You switched to speaking internally, _“I need you to shift your vision.”_

I did what you asked. The world became blue, and on the face of the door, I saw the wards. They were arcane symbols and runes, painted all over the door’s face, shining brilliantly blue with the concentration of thanergy within them. They had definitely not been there when my vision was normal — they were invisible somehow. You held out your hands, and you began to work.

You were a virtuoso conducting a silent symphony, deftly twitching the threads of power that flowed through you, making them dance and sing at your command. The wards responded, complex locks and labyrinths and riddles coming undone under the mastery of your control. You did not move, holding your hands steady in the air and concentrating intently, but beneath the surface there was a roaring ocean of movement.

It was beautiful. You were beautiful. I had never known, never understood the delicate grace of your power, how easily it responded to you, how wild and untamed it would be without your touch. You had been holding out on me, my shadowy sorceress.

Slowly, inexorably, you dismantled the toughest, most thorough safeguards that the Ninth House could muster. The runes were broken apart, their power cast away. Only one set of them remained — a beautiful, swirling pattern that ran the length of either side of the line where the two doors met.

You lowered your hands. Warden was staring at you with barely contained admiration. I wasn’t sure why you had stopped — there was still one more ward remaining. You bit your lip. _“I’m going to try something.”_

You walked right up to the door and reached out to touch it, but hesitated with your hand only a few inches away. You took a slow breath. Your fingers twitched, ever so slightly.

A strange shimmer formed around your hand. It wasn’t properly visible; it was on the edge of my perception, like a word on the tip of your tongue. I couldn’t understand why — I had already shifted my vision to see the thanergy. Whatever this was, it wasn’t that. It was almost like the heat shimmer that surrounds a fire. It _felt_ different from thanergy too. Instead of cold water, it was a hearth spreading cozy warmth through my veins. It surrounded your hand completely, and you pressed your palm flat against the stone, just to the left of the swirling ward.

You dragged your hand across, perpendicular to the two lines of thanergy that ran from the base of the doors to the top. As your hand crossed them, the lines parted and disappeared. It wasn’t like the way you undid the other wards — those unwound and unraveled as you pulled them apart, but these just _dissolved,_ like a puff of smoke. The dissolution began where your hands crossed the lines, but quickly ran all the way along the length of them, until the wards were just… gone.

“How… how did you do that?” Warden asked, awed.

“Thalergy,” you murmured.

“You mean the technique Pyrrha described?”

“Yes.”

“But she said that it took him — “

“I am not him. I am the greatest necromancer of my generation.” You pushed your palm against the colossal door, and it swung open. It took barely any strength, the stone responding to your touch like it weighed nothing at all. Without a single sound, without a single rumble or scrape of stone against stone, the door opened. You stared into the passage beyond for a moment, then looked over your shoulder, and said, “Follow me.”

The tunnel was pitch black. Warden pulled their pocket torch out of their robes and clicked it on, shining a beam of light into the rocky passage ahead. It wasn’t especially remarkable — just a big, dark cave. There were even more wards on the inside, and you undid all of them, using traditional necromancy to undo the ones that were too far away to reach, and using that same casual gesture of thalergy to brush aside the ones that were close enough to the ground.

It wasn’t long before we came to the true barrier. The rock that must never be rolled away. It was a huge boulder — far larger than any human could ever move — sitting directly in the center of the wall where the tunnel ended. The wards that covered it were mind-breakingly complex. They were fractals and mazes and spirals that split and twisted infinitely. Looking at them made my head hurt.

Here you did not employ any special magic. You drew my sword, and held it horizontally so that the handle was in one hand and the blade lay flat upon your other palm.

“ _Would you like to do the honors?”_

“ _What do I need to do?”_

“ _Just draw blood, and touch them.”_

My sword sliced a thin cut into the palm of my hand as I pulled it across — perhaps not the smartest place to draw blood from, but I was feeling dramatic, and I knew it would heal. Before the wound could seal itself I closed my hand and spread the blood around. I sheathed my sword, and rubbed my palms together. When they were both coated with a nice, even layer of red, I approached the rock.

I lifted my hands, but did not press them to the stone right away. There was something that felt weighty about this, about returning to this place together. The last time you came down here was the night your parents killed themselves. The night when I realized that you would truly, deeply hate me for the rest of our lives.

Funny how things turn out, sometimes.

I pressed my bloody palms flat against the center of two different spirals, one on each side of me. The ward lit up brilliantly gold where I touched it. The gold spread, traveling along every single fractal, every single path, burning away the ward behind it like fire burning holes in paper. It propagated rapidly through the entire pattern, until it crumbled away, and there was nothing left.

A deep rumble. I took a nervous step back as the rock began to move. It rolled to the side without a single touch from any of us, and came to a stop with a resounding boom. Behind it was a narrow hallway — not a cave, but a smooth, deliberately carved tunnel — that quickly disappeared into inky blackness. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I had been holding.

Alecto took a step past me. She stared into the blackness, Warden’s torch only piercing so far into the hallway before the darkness reclaimed it. Her expression was not the calm, neutral look she normally carried, nor the snarl of anger. It was grave, and perhaps a little sad, though I wasn’t sure whether I was just projecting. Everything about her expressions felt alien to me.

“All this, just for me?” she muttered to herself, “Oh Johnny, you could have spared yourself the trouble. All you had to do was keep your word, you bastard.” She remembered herself, and looked back over her shoulder, not enough to face us directly, but enough that she could probably see us in her periphery. “I’d like to go home now.”

Without another word, she walked into the hallway, and the dark swallowed her. I looked back at the others. Warden and Coronabeth both nodded at me — Coronabeth with an eager, determined bob of her head, Warden with a single, purposeful incline of theirs.

“Well, nothing else for it.” I cracked my neck, let out a heavy exhale as I psyched myself up, and crossed the threshold into the Locked Tomb.


	7. The Tomb Opens

There is a unique quality to the darkness in the deep underground. It isn’t the same as the darkness you find indoors, closer to the surface. Light bounces, reflects off of the surfaces it hits. Even in a room with no windows, there is some tiny amount of light, slipping through the crack under the door, creeping in, determined, through any gap it can find. Your eyes adjust, after a time. You might not be able to see much, but you can see your hand in front of your face, you can see the faintest outline of the things around you.

In the deep places of the world, there is nothing. When the lights are turned off, you are swallowed by complete blackness. There is nothing, not the slightest sliver of perception. You might as well be blind.

That darkness consumed us as we entered the Tomb. The tunnel was long, and Warden switched off their torch, as its battery had already been running low, and they wanted to preserve it while we were in a space that was at least somewhat known. I kept one hand on the wall beside me as we walked, to keep from bumping into the others. None of us spoke. There was only the void, and the noise of footsteps and quiet breaths, made invasively loud by the emptiness around us.

I had no idea how long we walked through the pitch, hand skimming along smooth, unchanging walls. But eventually we found our reprieve. Eventually, we found the lake.

The hallway opened into a cavernous space, its smooth walls giving way, turning out and merging into the rough walls of another cave. Glow worms had taken up residence in the dark, and they speckled the entire ceiling of the cave. They did not provide enough light to make out any details, but they gave form to the dark. The cave was unimaginably vast, big enough to fit all of Drearburh and have room to spare. The walls sloped away from us in a gentle curve, arching up to join with the ceiling high above us.

We were standing on a small spit of land before a deep, black lake. In the very center of the lake there was an island, visible only as a hole cut into the water’s reflection. At the end of the stretch of land sat a metal rowboat, still in pristine shape, somehow, after all this time. Our path forward awaited.

Warden took up the oars and we piled in with them. As we pushed out into the dark waters, I reached my hand over the edge and swished it through the water. I pulled my hand back as though I had been shocked — it was glacial, cold enough to burn my skin, cold enough that it should have been completely frozen. Chastened, I placed my hand into my lap and waited as Warden’s steady rowing carried us towards our destination.

The worms were high enough above us to become indistinct dots of color. They speckled the entire ceiling, turning it into a sky full of stars. The glassy surface of the water reflected it beneath us. It tricked the eyes, placed us within a dream, an endless expanse of starlight surrounding us on all sides. It enraptured me, made me crane my neck to take all of it in. We were suspended in the dark, gliding across a mirror as the universe lit up around us.

When we reached the island — the boat thumping heavily against the rocks and jarring me out of my reverie — we disembarked and Warden clicked their torch back on. The island was featureless rock, empty but for what lay in its center.

The sepulchre.

Calling it that felt silly — it was enormous. A more fitting word might have been the mausoleum. It was a huge, circular building with a flat roof that ran into the side of a grand dome in the center. A ring of decorative buttresses surrounded the perimeter like the legs of a great spider, and in front of us lay a set of double doors. We opened them, pushing hard to move the heavy, uncooperative stone.

The interior greeted us with the same swallowing blackness as the tunnel, the starlight worms no longer visible as we stepped inside. Warden’s torch was woefully insufficient. They hmm’d and put it away.

“I’m not an expert in the Fourth’s brand of magic, but I think I can…”

A ghostly teal flame sprung from their palm, casting their face in stark light and shadow. They pushed out their hand and the flame flew forward and upwards before coming to a stop suspended in the air above the center of the Tomb. They crushed their outstretched hand into a fist, and the fire flared, roaring into a brilliant ball of light.

The sepulchre of the Locked Tomb was a series of concentric circles, radiating out from what lay in the epicenter. Along the outer wall was a wide arcade, ending in a row of pillars supporting the roof, right before the flat surface gave way to the dome. Where the arcade ended, the floor fell away into a yawning pit — a cavernous abyss whose bottom was too deep to see. In the center of the pit was a column of dense ice, vivid blue like lapis lazuli, whose top flared outward like the bottom of a chalice, creating a wide platform that was connected to the outer arcade by a narrow bridge.

In the center of the platform was a circular dais, and atop the dais lay the coffin. Three thick, heavy chains ran through it — at first I thought they ran through holes in the sides, but I quickly realized that they didn’t; they ran directly through the ice, as if they had already been there when it first froze. They stretched from the coffin to the edges of the platform, held in place in grooves cut into the sides to accommodate them, before disappearing into the abyss below.

The teal glow of the necromantic fire made the ring of pillars cast long, flickering shadows, like spokes on a wheel. Its color rendered the room surreal and alien, an otherworldly gothic painting. It could not pierce far into the densely-packed ice of the platform and the coffin, but near the edges it seeped through enough to create a deep, pure blue glow.

The dais, the platform, the pit, the pillars, the arcade, the outer walls, they all formed ripples around the Tomb’s single, ancient occupant, as if we were standing on the surface of the lake, observing the splash as she was dropped into the water.

“I wonder if God is the sentimental type,” I dryly observed.

We crossed the bridge with slow, reverent steps. We were so silent, terrified that a single breath might shatter the tenuous peace of that ancient air. When I reached the other side and set foot on the ice, I moved with an abundance of caution, completely sure that I was going to slip and fall. A few wary footsteps reassured me that, while I’d have to be careful, it was more grippy than I thought it would be. Reassured, I brought my eyes back up to fix my gaze on our destination.

The coffin looked so tiny, so insignificant for the ominous, gothic grandeur of the tomb around it. It was the same violently blue ice that comprised the rest of the platform, and it must have been carved from the same source, all in one piece, because there was no seam to be found between it and the dais below it. The ice was so clear and unblemished that I could faintly see through it. The shape resting within was visible, although not in any great detail.

We all gathered in front of it and stared at it for a long moment, unwilling to disrupt the oppressive silence of our approach. Alecto was the first one to break out of our reverie. She reached a hand out, and brushed it over the lid of the coffin, her gaze distant and unreadable.

“How we have suffered, for what he and I did,” she murmured, “I will make this right.” Then she turned back to us and said, “Help me push the lid away.”

Coronabeth and I crossed over to the other side, stepping carefully over the chains. Alecto and Warden leaned their weight against the lid and pushed it towards us. As soon as enough of it had cleared the far lip to grip, Coronabeth and I grabbed it and pulled. Slowly, inelegantly, we slid that heavy block of ice away. It fell to the ground with a dull, echoey clunk, and the Body was revealed.

I saw her, when I was in your mind, saw your visions of the nameless Body; she looked different in person. She looked so _normal._ No longer a haunting specter, but just a woman. Just a body, like any other. In fact, I almost found her difficult to describe; she was tall — taller than me, but not taller than Coronabeth. Her hair was black, or close to it, with only the slightest hint of brown. She was fit, but not especially chiseled or buff. Her face was a picture of loveliness, with high, regal cheekbones, and thick eyelashes. I could see why she had captivated you, as a child; everything about her was gorgeous and perfect and lovely, and yet so, so unremarkable. Every part of her was conventionally attractive, to the point that nothing about her stood out. Even her one distinguishing feature — a slight divot pressed into her lower lip — felt almost token, as if it had been added for the explicit purpose of ensuring that she didn ’t look _so_ perfect as to beggar belief, like a beauty mark painted on a woman’s cheek with makeup. She was beautiful, I suppose, but in the most nondescript way possible.

I had seen better.

The others went to help Alecto extricate her body from underneath the chains. I took her sword and moved it out of the way. It caught my eye immediately, because I am a simple woman and I know what I like. It was a gigantic zweihänder with two wide side rings alongside the crossguard, and a set of triangular parrying hooks partway up the blade. The metal was black, in classic Ninth fashion, and I wondered if this was the origin of that tradition. It was rimed with frost, but the ages had left it neither tarnished nor dulled — it was an astoundingly well-built blade, solid and momentous in the hand. The weight of it shocked me, not so heavy that I couldn’t imagine wielding it, but heftier than any other sword I had ever seen.

The others laid Alecto’s body out on the ground in front of the dais. Warden and Coronabeth stood, but she remained crouched beside herself, placing one hand on her body’s cheek. For once I was pretty sure I understood what she was feeling. I gave her a moment.

Without turning away from her body, Alecto simply said, “I think it’s time for me to wake up.”

* * *

Ianthe had to know. She had to know. The Saint of Duty was acting exactly like himself — by all rights she had no reason to be suspicious. But it niggled at her brain. Something wasn’t right. So after the three of them met back up to figure out their next set of tasks, she did not go where she was supposed to go. She did not go to repair the external shielding, like she said she would. No, she went back to the security hub.

She had to know.

All three of them would be split up, she knew she should be able to do it without drawing suspicion upon herself. She walked back into the room and sat down in front of the bank of screens she had just recently fixed. If this person had skills anywhere near the Saint of Duty himself, or even worse, if it really was the Saint of Duty, attempting to follow him would probably result in a swift disemboweling. She had seen what he did to Harrow, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end of that ruthlessness. So instead of following, she simply watched.

The Saint of Duty was supposed to go check out the automated defense systems, which had been completely decimated in the Herald attack. But that wasn’t where he went. Instead, he took a hard right and made his way over to the communications center.

Of course.

When Ianthe saw him begin to use the equipment, she decided she had seen enough. She had a good idea who the impostor was sending a message to, and she had no interest in letting this continue. She hurried across the length of the station, as quietly as she could. When she came to the hallway leading up to the communications center, she slowed down, and crept closer. The impostor was talking. At first his words were indistinct, but as Ianthe got closer, she could make them out.

“ — know this is asking a lot of you, but it’s necessary.” Ianthe stood in the doorframe, watching the impostor send his message. Whatever information the impostor was trying to sneak to his comrades, she could not allow it to go through. If it was important enough for him to take this risk, it was too important for Ianthe to permit. She focused her power. “I hope you find another way to stay alive, but you _must_ abandon the mission. I misunderstood what she is. When she returns to her body, Alecto will be a — “

The impostor jumped back in shock as the entire console before him stretched and distended outwards. The screen cracked, the seams of the plastic housing split, and from behind it grew a bulging mass of meat. Muscle, sinew, fat, all of it spread from within the electronics, oozing blood, and it shattered the whole thing apart with a wet, squelching crunch. It was destroyed beyond repair, sputtering a few lame sparks from the shredded wires before cutting out completely.

The impostor turned to see Ianthe leaning against the doorframe, looking at him with quiet intensity.

“You know,” Ianthe said, “I think it’s time you and I had a little chat.”

* * *

I sat on the bridge with my knees folded to my chest, chin resting atop them, watching your body. It was bizarre. I didn’t think I’d ever seen you look so peaceful. It was anathema to who you were, by which I mean — in the most loving way possible — that you are an anxious, uptight little fucker.

Maybe it was because you weren’t actually in there.

You lay flat on the ground right beside the edge of the dais, in a circle of wards, similar to the setup Warden had used to get me back into my body, although unlike then, there was a third circle for Alecto, creating a triangle. I sat in the middle of my circle, awake, but not wanting to risk something going wrong if I stepped outside. There was no way to know how long this would take, or which one of you would wake up first.

I felt surprisingly lonely. I had become used to your presence in my mind, and now I was without it. The feeling of your soul leaving my body was not painful, but it was… unpleasant. It was like somebody scooped out my insides, leaving me hollow, and searching, and hungry. The feeling dissipated over time, but it left me listless.

Warden was pacing back and forth on the other side of the bridge, tapping away at the tablet that was linked to the Hermes, looking very busy and presumably doing very important things. Coronabeth was sitting in the center of the bridge, leaning her weight on her bent knees, looking at the three of us.

“What do you think you’ll do once you’re a proper Lyctor?” she asked. It took me a moment to realize she was talking me, too focused on the body lying across from me.

“What do you mean?”

“Once all this is done, the two of you are going to be together forever,” she sighed dreamily, “where will you go?”

I thought about it — really thought about it — for the first time. I never expected to come out of this in the end, but now, after what had happened between us… maybe I would. What _would_ I do? Kick my dad ’s ass probably, that seemed like step one. But that wasn’t an answer, not really. Once the battles were fought, and the expanse of eternity lay before us, what would we do with it? I had never had the freedom to ask that question before. Even when I wanted to escape the Ninth, I knew my options were limited. The Cohort was where I wanted to go, but realistically, it was probably the only place I _could_ have gone. The whole universe laid out in front of me? I had no idea.

“I’m going to bully my necromancer into developing at least one muscle,” I answered. Coronabeth rolled her eyes, and was about to summon a retort to my sarcasm when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

I perked up and watched with bated breath as you sat up and re-oriented yourself, flexing your fingers and stretching your legs. I’d gone through that rodeo myself, so I knew exactly what you were feeling, that weird sense of trying to get used to your own muscles again.

We locked eyes. I half expected them to be Alecto’s, or a completely different color, or _something_ that meant that things were still fucked up. But when you looked at me, your eyes were yours again, smoldering coal embers, like you could dust someone down to ash with just a look, and were trying very, very hard to do so.

Both of us stood up at the same time. You opened your mouth to say something, but you were too slow. Before you could get a single word out, I swept you up in a back-breakingly tight hug, lifting you into the air and spinning you around with a joyous laugh that the oppressive atmosphere of the Tomb could not stifle.

“Unhand me, Griddle!” you wheezed.

“Not a fucking chance, my irascible myriarch,” I beamed. I held you tight until your squirming threatened to make me drop you, and forced me to set you down. You took a step back and tried to make yourself look a little more dignified, adjusting your robes to be less rumpled and askew, but it was for naught, because I placed one hand on each of your cheeks and tugged you forward into an exuberant kiss. An adorable little noise of surprise squeaked out of your mouth as I claimed it. Your whole body tensed up and you flailed your arms for a second as you tried to figure out what to do with them, before you placed your hands on my biceps — an excellent choice, by the way. Your lips were thin and chapped and perfect, and you were kissing me back. We were both clumsy with inexperience, but there wasn’t a force in all the Nine Houses that could have made me care.

Warden cleared their throat meaningfully. I gave them the middle finger, not planning to stop anytime soon, but you pulled away and turned your head to the side, face flushed. Warden was looking pointedly elsewhere, but Coronabeth was watching us with barely-concealed glee. She pressed her hands together just below her chin and bit her lower lip, practically vibrating with the effort of containing herself. I could hardly make fun of her for it, given that I was grinning like an idiot.

“Yes, well, it seems like the process worked.” You unsuccessfully tried to wrestle your voice back to its normal ominous timbre. Coronabeth was still staring at you with obvious excitement, and when you noticed, you narrowed your eyes at her and said, “Stop that.”

Coronabeth raised her hands in a placating gesture. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she giggled.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Warden said with a slight smile, placing a hand on Coronabeth’s shoulder and guiding her across the bridge as she pouted at being moved away from her entertainment.

We were left standing by ourselves at the end of the bridge, staring at each other, drinking one another in. I pressed my forehead against yours, my hand cradling the back of your head. Your eyes fluttered, but you fought the temptation to shut them. You were so unused to this, to being touched, to my casual physicality. You had known me my whole life, but had only felt it through the blunting shroud of violence and anger. Every atom of your skin that made contact with mine was so sweetly, unbearably sensitive.

“So,” I said at length, “feeling more like yourself now, gloom mistress?”

No. Feeling like yourself meant feeling like a rope about to snap. Feeling like yourself meant feeling like an ocean of ice, bubbling and boiling with violent pressure underneath, fighting against the cracks. You did not feel like yourself.

“Yes. I…” here you faltered, “I understand if you do not wish to stay after this, I have already asked too much of you, and — “

“No, fuck that,” I insisted passionately, “I’m _in_ this. I’m not going anywhere.” I kissed you resoundingly, with finality and determination. Your eyes lost their fight to stay open as you were swept up in the tide of me. Your lips instinctively chased mine for a moment after I broke away. Your breath was deep and slow, your hands resting on my collar. I met your gaze as your eyes opened once again, pinning me with the magnitude of their intent.

“I…” your voice cracked, and you swallowed. When you continued, your voice was steady, serious, with that same passionate, articulate cadence you used to lead the congregation in prayer, “I do not understand what I have done to earn your fealty, Gideon Nav. Though you owe nothing, and I everything, still you make yourself my knight. You have given me the gift of your devotion — a gift I shall cherish above all else, to the shores of the River and beyond, higher than any and every star in the vastness of our sky — and all I can do in return is offer you the fullness of my heart, and pray that that pauper’s Oblation might one day be enough.”

My heart stuttered. Glowing heat flushed through my cheeks. It was suddenly unbearably difficult to meet your eyes. A stupid, shy little smile crossed my face despite my efforts to stop it. I averted my eyes, and scratched the back of my neck sheepishly, hoping that the face paint I was wearing might conceal the ridiculous blush on my face. I stammered unintelligibly for a few seconds before I managed, “Well, you know, a girl’s gotta make herself useful somehow, right?”

Pathetic. Inadequate. Probably the best I could hope for, given the circumstances.

You frowned. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay the worth of all that you’ve done.”

You were trying to catch my eye again, but I definitively could not handle that. I had no idea how to respond. Warden spared me, calling out from the other side of the bridge, “We have a message.”

I turned to face them. They were holding the communicator tablet, staring at the screen. I knew what that meant; there was only one person that message could be from. You and I shared one last, lingering glance, before I broke away from the spell of your eyes and crossed the bridge to join Warden.

We all huddled around them, and they hit play on the recording.

“This needs to be quick. Listen carefully,” Pyrrha said, glancing over her shoulder, confirming that she was alone. “Abort the mission. Alecto can’t be allowed to return to her body, under any circumstances. Learned why she got locked up. The Beasts, they’re going to chase her — I always thought they were chasing _him_. Their bond is mutual. If she dies, he dies, and if he dies… that was her plan. Draw the Beasts in, let them kill her. Pull them into the black hole. Kill them all at once, the Nine Houses with them. He couldn’t stop them following her, couldn’t kill her, so he put her to sleep. The moment she’s back, they’ll chase her. Nav, I know this is asking a lot of you, but it’s necessary. I hope you find another way to stay alive, but you _must_ abandon the mission. I misunderstood what she is. When she returns to her body, Alecto will be a — “

The recording abruptly stopped. It remained frozen on the final frame, cracks spiderwebbing across the screen, warping and fragmenting the image until it was an indecipherable jumble of color. The four of us stood there, equally as frozen, a collective held breath.

“Well, this is terribly awkward, isn’t it?”

My gaze snapped up to the source of the voice, and standing there, at the foot of the coffin, was Alecto, the First Resurrected, in her own body once again.

* * *

Ianthe sauntered towards the impostor.

“You know, you really had me going when you attacked the other two, that was a good ruse,” she drawled. The impostor stood stock still, expression unchanging, his hand resting on the grip of his rapier. But Ianthe made no move to draw on him. Instead, she lifted her metallic hand as she drew close and reached for his sunglasses. His other hand snapped up to halt hers, grabbing her wrist and holding it there with a steel grip. She didn’t even look towards it, just kept her eyes fixed on his with an expression that could have been a sneer or a snarl.

The impostor threw Ianthe’s hand to the side. Ianthe smiled, though her eyes remained deadly serious. She turned and began to walk slowly away from him.

“I only have one question for you,” she said, coming to a stop on the other side of the cramped room. She matched the impostor’s pose, hand resting on her rapier. “Is the Saint of Duty dead?”

“Yes.”

Ianthe tightened her grip on her rapier.

“I should just wait for Teacher, shouldn’t I? He’d know how to sort this out.” Ianthe took a deep breath. “But I don’t think I will.” She turned to face the impostor. Her smile was gone. “Would you like to know why?”

He did not humor her.

“Because, impostor,” she snarled, “you and your friends chose the wrong body to steal.”

Ianthe drew her rapier, and the impostor moved like lightning. With one hand he grabbed the retracted pole of his spear from his belt and tossed it into the air, pressing the button on the side. As his other hand drew his rapier, the pole telescoped outwards in both directions, the slight spin bringing it from vertical to perfectly horizontal as it sailed upwards, reached the peak of its arc, and began to descend. The moment it finished extending and the shaft locked into place, he snatched it out of the air, already rotating his whole torso into the movement, and launched it at Ianthe with terrifying force.

Ianthe’s eyes widened in panic and she tried to form a flesh shield in front of herself, but his speed caught her completely off guard, surpassing even the Saint of Duty himself, and the spear was past it before it could even form. It skewered her directly through the throat, shattering her spine as the point and a full third of the shaft came out the other side. The force of it threw her backwards and she collapsed to the floor, completely disabled, her spinal cord severed.

The impostor sprinted at her, and Ianthe hoped beyond hope that her regeneration would overcome the disruption of the spear shaft lodged in her neck before he could finish the job. He grabbed Ianthe by the hair and tugged until her head and half her torso were lifted off the ground. A Lyctor could not survive the complete removal of their head, but he was working with the wrong kind of sword for this task. He put it to the side of her neck and sliced inwards until he hit the side of the shaft. But maneuvering his rapier around the spear to complete the final cut on the other side proved too awkward a task.

He fumbled for only a moment as he tried to reposition his blade, but it was enough. Ianthe’s nerves squirmed their way around the spear and reconnected. She raised one hand, and a mass of tendon and muscle erupted from the floor behind him, whipping out and around, encircling him. Wherever two cords met in front of his body, they knitted themselves together, fusing into loops of muscle that pulled taut across his chest and his arms and his gut. They contracted violently all at once, and he was yanked backwards and dragged across the floor. He sliced through the strands and quickly freed himself, but it bought her enough time to stand up.

The impostor scrambled to his feet and barreled towards Ianthe with barely a pause. Ianthe wrapped her hand around the spear, still lodged in her throat, trying to figure out how to remove it without re-severing her nerves. She held it still with one hand and slammed the pommel of her rapier against it, snapping it off a few inches out from her neck, leaving the rest buried. She tried to ready herself, but the impostor reached her too quickly, and before she could react, there was a rapier piercing her heart. Ianthe growled at the pain, and thrust her rapier at his gut. But the impostor was a dancer with a blade, and he had already retreated, turning Ianthe’s stab into an impotent flail.

Again, again, again, the impostor fell upon her with a flurry of steel, giving her no time to pause or formulate a counterattack. Ianthe never had a moment to dislodge the other half of the spear, and the weight left her clumsy and off-balance. She slashed wildly, and the impostor disarmed her with an artful twirl of his blade, sending her rapier clattering to the floor before landing a slash across her collar.

A line of blood sprayed out to Ianthe’s side. She stepped back, drew her trident knife, and crystallized the blood into a solid, razor-sharp blade, like crimson glass, before sweeping it across. The impostor ducked just in time, and it sliced through the equipment on the desk behind him, sending out a shower of sparks before dissolving back into liquid. The sparks ignited the papers lying on the desk, and in seconds, a blaring alarm cut through the air and the sprinklers turned on, leaving them both instantly soaked.

He was upon her again in moments, feinting forwards to draw out her stab. After it passed he rushed in, slamming Ianthe against the wall behind her and pinning her arm against her body. Ianthe scrabbled at the spear sticking out of the back of her neck with her free hand. Extra muscles sprouted along the length of her arm, pulling with superhuman strength and snapping the shaft. The impostor held Ianthe’s pinned arm in place and levered downwards with his other elbow, breaking her wrist and forcing the knife out of her grasp.

The knife fell. The spear tip fell. The impostor tossed his rapier to the side and snatched the knife out of the air, leaving him in perfect position for a backstab right at Ianthe’s throat. Ianthe’s hand whipped downwards, reaching blindly for the falling spear point. The impostor’s stab connected, and he pressed the button to snap the prongs outwards, tearing through her flesh. But he aimed too close to the section of the spear still stuck in her neck. The prongs glanced off the cylindrical shaft, and instead of extending horizontally, diverted upwards, slicing right up to her jaw, but failing to finish the job and sever her head.

Ianthe plunged the tip of the spear into his breast.

The impostor’s eyes went wide. His hand slipped off the knife and dropped to her shoulder as he pitched forward. Ianthe ripped the spear point out and pushed him to the side. He stumbled back until he hit the wall, leaving a trail of blood upon it as he slid to the floor.

Ianthe knelt in front of him. There was a wet tearing noise as she ripped the knife and the last section of the spear shaft from her throat, spluttering blood from her mouth as they fell to the floor. After a few seconds, she choked out an impassioned _“Fuck.”_ It took her a minute to recover, gasping for air as the impostor panted shallow breaths beside her. Once she had gathered herself, she picked up the trident knife and snapped the prongs closed.

“Alright, let’s see what you’re hiding.” Ianthe pulled off the impostor’s sunglasses and looked him in the eye. He met her gaze defiantly with eyes the color of red clay, stubborn and proud, fighting against the fog that crept into them. At length, Ianthe said, “I have no idea who you are.”

“Tell him — “ the impostor attempted, before breaking into violent coughing, “tell John he’s a bloody fool. That he still needs someone to remind him.”

Ianthe frowned and brushed her soaking wet hair out of her face. “Normally I’d honor that request,” she said, glancing down at the knife in her hand, “but the thing is, I rather liked having Harry around.” She pointed the tip of the knife at him. He swallowed heavily. Her eyes blazed with fury. “And I have no mercy for people who steal my things.”

Ianthe plunged the knife forwards, and after ten thousand years, the body of the Saint of Duty finally fell still.

* * *

Alecto was more than the sum of her parts. Her body, without her in it, had looked normal, unremarkable even. Seeing her in your body was unnerving, sure, but she still felt like a person. She was just a creepy weirdo with a thousand-yard stare. But the two of those things put together created something entirely different.

She was uncomfortable to look at. An aura of dreadful command radiated out of her, a magnetic force that made my skin crawl. The unpleasant, piercing quality of her gaze was magnified a thousandfold. Her eyes sucked the air out of my lungs. Her presence made the very air around me leaden and oppressive. Whatever she was, it was not human. She looked like a human, moved like a human, but there was no possible way to mistake her for one. The unremarkable perfection of her beauty made her into a doll, an uncanny approximation of a person, like a puppet made of skin.

Her hands rested atop the pommel of her sword, whose tip dug into the ice in front of her feet. She closed her eyes, breathed in, breathed out, a sigh of utter relief.

“It feels so good to be us again.” Her voice made my insides squirm. It carried too many emotions at the same time, like somebody had recorded her saying the same sentence a dozen times, each with a slightly different intonation, and then played all of them back at once. “We’re not accustomed to being by myself anymore, it was awfully lonely being an I, instead of a we.”

Warden put the communicator away and rested their hand on the pommel of their rapier. Coronabeth followed suit, but I didn’t take out my sword right away.

“Is it true?” Coronabeth asked, “Is that your plan?”

“It is.”

“You know we’re not going to allow that,” Warden warned. I looked over at them and scrunched my brow in confusion.

“Uhh, we’re not? I thought — alright — “ I held up my hands in a placating gesture, despite the fact that nobody was actually doing anything. They didn’t need to, the tension between them was palpable, “Everybody needs to relax. You wanna kill my deadbeat dad? Fucking sweet. Go for it. Hell, we’ll help you out. We’ll get everybody out of dodge, and clear the way for you to do your thing.” She looked at me, and I found myself wishing that she wouldn’t. Her gaze hit me like a lead slug. My heart pounded in my chest. It was too much. I wanted to fidget and squirm and look away until she would just _stop._

“No, Gideon. All of this, every one of you, are born from the ashes of a promise that was never fulfilled. I will take what I am owed — every breath of air, every drop of blood — and still, when all of the Nine Houses burn, it will not be enough to pay for his crimes.”

“Exactly Alecto. _His_ crimes. Everyone living here? They didn’t do shit. Don’t bring them into this. Be angry with him, yeah — hell, I’m angry with him too — but don’t get angry at them for something they didn’t even do.”

Her face contorted into a wild snarl, “Don’t get angry? Don’t get _angry?_ _”_

“Okay, clearly I’ve — that’s my bad, I didn’t — “

“Ten thousand years!” she roared like a gale, “Ten thousand years were taken from us, we will be as angry as we wish!” Her words echoed unnaturally through the Tomb, far louder than anything a person of her size should have been able to produce. The echoes overlapped one another and became a cacophony, a chorus of fury.

 _Now_ I drew my sword. I stayed steady and did my best to look intimidating, but when I looked at you and the others, all of you were backing away, panic inscribed upon your faces. I didn’t have time to process it. I just turned back to her, and said,

“Don’t fucking try us.” I took one step towards her, and she acted. Something changed within her eyes, and the air became choking. The darkness encroached upon the light of Warden’s flame. Reality creaked and groaned under the weight of her presence.

That’s when you began to scream.

You, Warden, Coronabeth, all three of you split the air with a concordant howl of visceral terror. You stumbled backwards and fell, then continued to scramble away on the ground, one hand held out in front of you as a pathetic shield. It didn’t take long before you stopped moving entirely, giving up on fleeing in order to cradle your head and curl up into a ball.

“Harrow!” I cried, rushing over to your side and kneeling down beside you, hands hovering uselessly over your body as you writhed in terror. I looked back at Alecto over my shoulder, “Let her go!”

Alecto paused her advance. “We did promise not to kill you, we suppose. We are a woman of our word. They will recover when we leave — you will let us pass, and we will spare you.”

Pure, blinding panic was written across your face as you cowered and flinched away from me, insensate. I couldn’t bear to watch you like that. I gritted my teeth. I might not have been able to summon rage like she could, but burning fury overtook me nonetheless. She was hurting you. She was _hurting_ you. I may not have known much, but I knew what my job was, and I was damn well going to do it. I stood, threw off my heavy robes, and stepped back onto the bridge with my sword at the ready.

I snarled like a wild animal, “You’re not going anywhere, bitch.”

Her lips quirked upward. “We expected nothing less of you.”

I ran across the bridge, bringing up my two hander, and fell upon her in a bloody fury. She lifted that gargantuan greatsword and twirled it around like a children’s toy, batting my thrust aside with an impact that juddered painfully all the way through my arms. In an instant, I knew that I was in way over my head. Her blow landed with strength far beyond what somebody with her musculature should have been capable of, and she moved with the casual confidence of a true master.

Her stroke knocked my arms to the side, and I took advantage of the opening to bull rush her and slam my shoulder into her chest, sending her stumbling backwards, struggling to keep her footing on the ice. I followed up with a slash across her body. She threw her weight back sharply to dodge out of range, but the tip of it still cut across her shoulder, slicing a thin gash into her skin. Her sword swung at me and I flung myself backwards, just barely avoiding being disemboweled as she cut a slash across my gut. I landed on my feet but the slippery surface threw me off and I fell onto my back. Alecto stared at her shoulder as her cut and mine both sealed up in unison.

I was back on my feet in an instant, descending upon her aggressively, trying to force her to stay defensive, getting in close, where a sword the size of hers would be clumsy. I kept my attacks quick and my movements small, hoping to outmatch her raw strength with the speed of a lighter blade.

The screaming was unbearably loud. It jangled my nerves, disrupted my concentration. Alecto pressed her advantage, forced me back, and circled to the side so I wasn’t between her and the bridge anymore. Our blades clashed in the air, and I tried to push hers aside, but she caught my two-hander on the parrying hooks of her greatsword. I struggled to keep control, but she had too much leverage over my blade. I fought to keep her from lining up a stab. I pulled away, and she followed step for step, keeping our swords locked.

My leg caught on one of the chains running from the side of the coffin and I fell flat on my back. I kicked my feet against the ground and scooted away ungracefully on the slick ground, sliding underneath the two other chains and coming out the other side right as her sword struck the ground where my pelvis had been only a fraction of a second earlier. The time it took her to maneuver over the chains gave me a moment to stand up. The screams were growing quieter, more strained as you and Warden and Coronabeth shouted yourselves hoarse and breathless.

She had the advantage of greater strength and greater reach, and I just couldn’t keep up. Slashes landed across my chest and my cheek, and I growled defiantly. Your breathless, strained scream turned to a pained keening noise, then stopped entirely as you passed out, Coronabeth following only moments behind you.

I had an idea — a stupid idea, mind you, but an idea nonetheless. I ran full speed at Alecto, and instead of retreating when she tried to force me back with a thrust, I kept charging forwards. Her eyes went wide as the greatsword skewered my gut. A pained snarl forced itself past my gritted teeth, but it worked. I was suddenly way closer in her personal space than she expected, and she couldn’t maneuver her sword. With one hand I grabbed her hair and with the other I dragged my blade across her neck, trying to saw her head off and finish this.

Blood gushed down Alecto’s front. She tried to pull away, but I held her tight by the hair. She yanked herself away a second time, much harder, and tore herself from my grasp, careening backwards and falling on her back, dislodging her sword from my gut. The stab wound sealed itself up behind it, and I prepared to press my advantage. She had broken away, but she was still off-balance, injured — I could finish this.

Warden’s scream trailed off to a breathless pant, then stopped as they passed out. Their teal flame flickered and died, and we were plunged into complete darkness. I froze. The disappearance of the screams made the Tomb deafeningly quiet. I could hear Alecto and I both gasping for breath. The dreadful weight of her will eased, as if her eyes couldn’t pierce me through the dark, and I felt like I could breathe again. I tried to shift my vision to be able to see thanergy, so I could at least see her as negative space among the blue, but nothing happened. I couldn’t do it anymore.

Footsteps, coming towards me. I raised my sword in front of me and backed away in a panic. The blackness was so complete, I couldn’t even see my own hands in front of me. Alecto’s sword slammed against mine, and the impact of it pushed me back. I swung blindly, catching nothing but air.

This wasn’t going to work. I sprinted towards where I desperately hoped the chains were and dove. My face slammed into the ground and I slid along the floor, my foot knocking against the last chain on the way down. My shoulders slipped past the edge as I skidded to a stop. I pulled myself frantically to safety, then placed the flat of my sword against the lip of the platform and ran, tracing it along the edge to keep track of where I was until I found the bridge. Alecto followed close behind, her footsteps loud, but halting, as she stepped over the chains. I ran to where I knew Warden’s body would be, but I misjudged my path and tripped over Coronabeth, sprawling out onto my face. I crawled to Warden’s body and rooted frantically through their pockets.

_There._

I pulled their torch out of their pocket, Alecto’s footsteps right behind me, then clicked it on and turned to swing my sword upwards with one hand. It collided with Alecto’s, and she forced my two-hander down until the tip hit the ground, the blade of my own sword pressed against my face, sinking a shallow cut into my cheek. I kicked Alecto’s feet, and she collapsed, freeing me up to get to my feet and hold the torch in my mouth, so I could use both my hands.

Alecto was upon me again, barely visible in the weak beam of the torch. I couldn’t stand my ground, and I retreated across the bridge, onto the platform once again. Our swords clashed, and she pushed right up against me, blades inches from our faces as I struggled to hold fast.

“You fight so hard for her, when all she has ever done is torment and abandon you,” Alecto hissed, “She lies — that’s what necromancers _do._ They make all sorts of pretty promises, and then stab us in the back.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about us,” I slurred around the torch in my mouth, more confidently than I actually felt, and forced our swords apart with an almighty shove. We circled one another warily.

“Oh Gideon, we know you better than you think.” We moved towards one another in unison. I put all my strength into an upward slash, right as Alecto brought her greatsword down in a tremendous overhead strike.

Our swords collided in the middle, and with a tremendous noise of wrenching steel, my longsword shattered.

I cried out in pain as the impact broke my wrist. I dropped the remnants of my two hander — little more than a handle with a short, jagged scrap of metal sticking out of it. Alecto rammed the pommel of her greatsword into my face and crushed my nose with a dull crunch. I fell to the floor, groaning in pain. The torch bounced off to the side and rolled in a semicircle, coming to a halt shining directly at us. Alecto rested her greatsword against her shoulder, holding it with one hand, then leaned down, grabbed me by the the throat, and lifted my torso off the ground effortlessly. I struggled fruitlessly as she dragged me across the ice.

“Devotion is your downfall, Gideon, as it was ours. We owe a debt beyond anything you could possibly imagine, all because we _trusted_ him. Our debt is his debt, and we are here to collect. You are not going to stop us, no matter how bravely you try.”

I whimpered and fought as she brought me to the lip of the platform. She lifted me into the air with one hand and held me over the edge. My legs kicked. I clutched frantically at her arm. The black void yawned below. There was no mockery in Alecto’s expression — it was sad, and it was proud, but above all else it was _angry._

“And you _were_ brave, Gideon. You deserved better than this. And you deserved better than her.”

She let go, and I plunged into the abyss.


	8. The Desolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, this is officially the longest story I've ever written. Gotta say, it feels pretty good.
> 
> Side note, I meant to put this in the end notes for last chapter, but I forgot, so I'll put it here. If you want to get a better sense of what Alecto's sword looks like, just in terms of shape, the sword in this video is pretty much exactly how I envisioned it: https://youtu.be/knNoib52PBw

My world was cold and painful and dark. Each breath was a sharp, shallow gasp. The pain was scintillating. In a lightless pit at the bottom of the House of the Ninth, I stayed alive. I dangled from a chain in the swallowing black void, holding on with one hand and hanging limply. My shoulder was violently dislocated when I grabbed the chain, my momentum tearing it from its socket. It popped itself back into place, and I whimpered at the sensation. I swayed back and forth, my mind swimming. A twist of my wrist spun me around enough to grab on with my other hand and wrap my legs around the chain. The metal was colder than ice, colder than anything I had ever felt. It burned my skin the instant I touched it, but my skin replenished itself just as quickly.

Clenching my legs tight around the chain let me take my weight off my arms enough to crane back and look up. The only light was a tiny spotlight cast on the inside of the lip of the pit — that must have been Warden’s torch, still lying on the ground. God, it was so far away. My sense of distance was too warped and strange to tell exactly how far, but it seemed discouragingly remote.

I reached one hand above the other and pulled myself a few miserable inches upwards. Inch by inch, hand over hand, I climbed. It was hell. The pain was constant. Even if the damage was temporary, the agony built and built. My hands shook. I had to find you. I had to know if you were alive.

I had to stop. My legs took my weight and I pulled my hands away, looking to buy even just a moment, just a second without the horrible burning. I held myself up with my legs and my core. The top of my head pressed against the chain and I held myself in place. My heavy breaths turned to sobs. I couldn’t help it. I held myself there, and I shook, and tears fell from my eyes to my legs. But I did not have the luxury of stewing in my own despair. You needed me.

I put one hand above the other.

I put one hand above the other.

I put one hand above the other.

The tears slid down my face as I dragged myself every single agonizing inch to the lip of that platform. The light of Warden’s torch grew closer and closer. With one last almighty heave, I pulled myself over the edge, and back to the land of the living.

The ground was mercifully solid, and I rolled over to lie on my back, panting hard. Each breath stabbed and burned in my chest. I groaned pathetically. There was a sound of somebody shifting not far away. Before I could investigate, it was followed by the sound of them scrambling across the ground, and then violently retching. No time to rest. I grabbed the torch from the ground beside me and stood up. A sweep of the torch revealed the scene before me. No sign of Alecto. Coronabeth knelt, hands clutching the edge of the pit, heaving little dribbles of vomit into the abyss. I ignored her, and ran to your side.

“Harrow, Harrow,” I fretted, placing a hand on your shoulder and shaking you. You did not stir. I rolled you onto your back, and cradled the back of your head, lifting you up a bit. My other hand went to your pulse. Still beating. “Harrow, come on, come on,” I pleaded, and moved my hand from your pulse to your face.

Your eyes fluttered open.

“Griddle…” I laughed hysterically and hugged you. Your arms hung limp at first, but eventually you brought them around to hug me back. Your embrace was weak and shaky, but you were alive. I buried my face in your shoulder, clutching at you with both hands, as if you might float away if I let go. “We’re alive,” you marveled in disbelief. I nodded into the crook of your neck. You extricated yourself from my shoulder, and I begrudgingly let you pull back to look at me. “Did she escape?”

I nodded, and your eyes went wide. Your face blanched. You let go of me, stood up, and tried to start running. Your legs wobbled and collapsed beneath you.

“Harrow!” I exclaimed, rushing over to help you. You pulled yourself back up and started running again, slow and unsteady as you regained your legs. “Harrow, wait!”

“There’s no time.”

I grabbed you and tried to hold you back. “Slow down Harrow, you need to recover.”

“There’s no _time,_ _”_ you struggled out of my halfhearted grip and kept going.

“Harrow — “

“My House is in danger!” you cried. I stopped short. Oh. Oh shit. Of course.

Warden found their footing, Coronabeth’s hands on their shoulder and arm, offering support. They came to my side as you ran. I looked at each of them. We nodded at one another, and we set off at a sprint.

* * *

My dread grew with every step we took. We crossed the lake, we ran through the tunnel, past the stone that was rolled away, through the gates. We left the Locked Tomb behind us, a place with no name, for neither of those words were true anymore. The elevator wasn’t there — Alecto must have taken it back up — and we called it down, waiting impatiently, terrified. None of us spoke, not while we waited for it to arrive, not while we rode it back up. Your face was pale, your lips drawn thin — I had never seen you so afraid in my life.

The instant the elevator arrived at the top you took off, sprinting through the winding hallways of Drearburh. The ancient stone flew past us, the dim, wavering lights casting you in unnatural shadows. I listened for the sounds of shouting, of fighting and death, but I heard nothing. It did not reassure me. You led us to the chapel, to the side entrance. The heavy iron door creaked as you heaved it open.

We followed behind you, and we were greeted by a massacre.

The entire congregation was slaughtered, bodies strewn through the aisles and over the pews. This was not the congregation of my youth, its numbers padded with skeletons to make the place seem more full and alive despite the precious few living members who remained. This was the congregation of a House renewed, easily a hundred people, struck down where they stood. Most of them were not people I knew, but some of them were. In the front row I saw the great aunts, Aisamorta and Lachrimorta, sprawled out across the pew, their blood pooling on the bench. I didn’t understand at first. I didn’t understand why there were so many — couldn’t they have just run away? But then I looked closer at the bodies.

Their faces were gruesomely contorted, rictuses of fear and agony. I felt the sudden urge to throw up. She had done to them what she had done to you, blinding them with fear until they were insensate, until they could not defend themselves or flee.

They had died screaming.

There was a pained groan. I realized that some of them were still alive, a precious few of them, clutching their wounds, writhing in pain. The moment they heard the sound, Warden ran past and kneeled by the man’s side — nobody I recognized. They tended to his wounds, hands becoming soaked with blood in seconds as they closed up a gash across his torso. Coronabeth stopped in front of the crowd, hands clasped over her mouth. It took her a few moments, but she gathered herself and ran to another survivor, not able to heal them as Warden did, but keeping pressure on their wounds, trying to keep them alive.

You stood frozen before the carnage. Your face was slack, your jaw hanging open. Your eyes bulged, as if opening even wider would help you comprehend the horror.

I followed Coronabeth’s lead and ran to a woman in the fourth row who was still alive. Her face was pale, her trembling hands clasped over a stab wound in her gut. I moved them aside, and applied pressure. She keened in pain at my touch.

“Fuck, I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I choked. Her breath was shallow and pained. “Warden!” I yelled desperately, “I need you! She’s fading!”

“They _all_ are, Ninth!” they shouted back. “Keep her awake as long as you can.” I kept pressure on her wound. My knees rested in a pool of her blood. It soaked through the fabric of my pants, warm and sticky. The smell was overwhelming. She was looking at me now, but her eyes were foggy, drooping.

“Hey,” I said, “stay with me. What’s your name?” She tried to tell me, but the attempt made her cough and whimper, and I said, “Okay, no, don’t, don’t try to talk, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck.”

“Harrow,” I cried out, “Harrow, get over here! I need your help!” You did not respond. I looked back over my shoulder. You were still standing there, frozen, catatonic. You stood stock still, beholding the carnage with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Harrow, come on!” Still you did not respond. The shock was plainly written on your face.

I swore and told the woman to keep pressure on her wound, then stood up and ran over to you. I grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you a little, “Harrow, Harrow, come on, you need to move, we need your help.” You did not register my words or my touch. You just stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes and a limp, pliant body. My frustration welled higher. I slapped you across the face and berated you with a demanding voice, “Goddammit, Nonagesimus, what is the point of all that magic if you won’t fucking _do_ anything?”

Your eyes snapped back into focus. You looked at me, then looked at the woman I had been helping. After a moment of thought as you took in the situation, you sprung into action.

“Move aside, Nav.” Your frozen indecision was gone. Your face was set, grim and determined.

The Reverend Daughter was here.

You strode confidently over to the woman and knelt beside her. You moved quickly, efficiently, placing a hand over her wound. Your other hand slipped beneath her body, to cover the exit wound. She whimpered and moaned, and you ignored her protests; you had no words of comfort to offer, no platitudes or reassurances. You had work to do. I couldn’t see your necromancy working, but I could see the look of concentration on your face. When you removed your hands, her skin was whole again, unscarred, though still covered in blood. Even with her wound closed, her face was drawn, pale.

“Warden,” you barked, “do you still have your medical kit?” They called out an affirmative, and you turned to me. “She needs blood.”

I understood what you meant immediately. You got up and moved on to the next survivor. I ran to Warden’s side, and they pulled their medical kit from their robes. I rooted through it until I found what I needed — some tubing with a needle on either end. I ran back to the woman’s side and stuck the needle into a vein. I put the other end in my arm, then sat down on the pew, holding the tube up above her to help the blood flow.

My frantic breathing began to calm as I watched the blood flow from me to her. It reassured me, seeing my life flow into her. This, this I could do. Being a universal donor has its perks. “You’re going to be alright,” I reassured, “you’re going to be fine. Just stay still. Just relax.”

I wasn’t sure exactly how long I needed to keep transferring blood, but when the color started to come back to her face, I pulled the needle out. I ripped off a strip of cloth from her shirt and tied it loosely around her arm, as a bandage. Her breathing was calmer now, less shallow. I moved to stand up, but she stopped me, placing a hand on my arm. I looked back at her.

“Joanna.” Her voice was thin and strained, as if summoning it was a titanic effort. I understood her meaning, and gave her as much of a smile as I could muster. She smiled back, wan, but grateful.

“Will you be alright, Joanna?” I asked. She nodded, but said nothing, apparently not quite up to talking any more than that. I didn’t blame her.

I stood up, and directly in front of me, in the next row of pews, was the body of Marshal Crux.

I hadn’t even noticed him. He was on the floor, his back against the divider between two sections of the pew, so he was sitting upright. There was a stab wound directly over his heart. His sword lay on the ground beside him.

I circled around the end of the pew and walked over to his body. Those eyes were supposed to be cruel. They were supposed to look at me with hatred and contempt, but they were empty, filled only with fear. I had never seen Crux look afraid.

I hated that man. I hated you back then too, but that was different. Our mutual hatred fed into itself, burning hotter and hotter as you hurt me and I hurt you right back. But Crux? Crux was just fucking cruel. Yeah, I was a little shit as a kid, and I probably made his life difficult, but you know what? I was a goddamn child, and he was a grown man.

Looking at him flooded me with memories. One memory in particular came to mind, specific and vivid — I couldn’t have told you why. He had taken away my food as punishment for… something. I don’t remember. Something stupid, probably. It had been almost two days since I had eaten. I was so hungry. I gave in and stole something from the kitchens. I was caught, of course. Your parents found me, and they turned me over to him for punishment, wiping their hands of the affair and leaving the decision to him. And he decided to whip me. He flayed the skin from my back until I passed out in a pool of my own blood. Because I stole a bowl of gruel. I was nine years old.

I clenched my fist. I wanted to scream at the lifeless body in front of me. I wanted to break his fucking nose. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, to demand that he answer for what he did to me, for every injustice and every gleeful lash of the whip.

I placed his sword in his hand and laid it delicately upon his lap. I closed his eyes. And with one last heavy breath, I walked away.

You and Warden were finishing up with the last of the survivors. I walked down the central aisle, scanning back and forth, looking for any quieter ones we might have missed. I got to the end of the pews, and I saw somebody propped up against the back wall, right beside the open main doors. My breath caught in my throat.

I ran to Aiglamene’s side. Her chest was moving — she was still breathing! She was unconscious, but alive, and I surveyed her wounds. There was a wicked gash across her torso, and her nose was badly broken; I guessed that Alecto must have knocked her out with a bash from her pommel.

“Harrow! Warden!” I called out, and the two of you ran to my side. Coronabeth followed shortly, and stood behind me, worrying the hem of her sleeve. Warden immediately set to work patching Aiglamene up — you were able to do it, but they had far more experience with that kind of magic. I waited, fidgeting nervously, as they sealed up her wounds. Her nose sprung back into place with a worrying crack. The slash across her chest sealed itself up with a fleshy, squirming noise that made me want to retch.

Aiglamene woke up with a protracted groan. She blinked her eyes open, and looked at you. “My lady… ”

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry my lady, I could not… I could not stand against her.”

“It’s alright, captain. I’m glad you’re alive.”

Aiglamene nodded. Her every movement was slow, difficult. She looked at me, and I smiled weakly.

“Hey captain.” Her gaze grew thunderous, and while I didn’t show it, I might have quailed, just a little bit. Aiglamene got to her feet, rebuffing my offered hand with a murderous look. I was fully expecting her to chew me out, with the way she was looking at me, but instead, she turned back to you.

“Why is she here?” Aiglamene strained the limits of her deference.

“Wha — hey!” I protested.

“Shut up, Nav.” Aiglamene ordered, and I did. Her eyes remained fixed upon you. I had never seen her so furious in my life. “I vouchsafed for you. I vouchsafed Gideon Nav’s freedom. Have you made a liar of me, my lady?”

I briefly died inside. I expected you to meet her anger with your own, to grow haughty and dismissive, the way you always did when you were feeling threatened. That is not what happened. You shrunk beneath her anger, looking suddenly nervous and guilty.

“I… things became… complicated. I’m working on it.”

I wondered what the hell you meant by that, because I had no plans to go anywhere, but before I could ask you, Aiglamene rounded on me again, seeking confirmation. “It’s alright. I chose to be here.”

Apparently that was enough to satisfy her. She turned back to you and asked, “Is that woman who I think she is?”

You nodded. “The Tomb is open.”

Aiglamene closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall for support. “God help us all.” I winced, and decided not to get into that particular side of things. The old lady was having a rough enough day as it was. “We need a plan, my lady.”

“We need to assure the survival of our House,” you said, “The four of us are going to try to stop her, but the rest of the Ninth needs to get to safety. Our resources are not enough; it’s time to bite the bullet — we call for aid.”

“The Eighth is unlikely to give us anything, but the Fourth should be willing to help,” Aiglamene strategized, “If we request a transport ship, it won’t take too long for it to arrive.”

“Then that is my task for you, captain. Gather everybody who is left. Get them out of the system, and wait there. I will send word when I know whether it is safe to return.”

Aiglamene bowed her head. “As you wish, my lady. And you?”

Your face hardened. You glanced out the door, and your hands twitched, reflexively reaching for bone bracelets that you weren’t wearing. “I will bring the wrath of the Ninth upon her.”

Without another word, you strode purposefully out the door. Warden and Coronabeth exchanged a glance, and followed. I moved to do the same, but Aiglamene grabbed my wrist as I walked past. I looked back at her over my shoulder. She met my eyes with her familiar, chipped granite gaze. It took her a moment to speak, and I waited patiently.

“Don’t let her keep you,” Aiglamene said, quiet and serious.

“Don’t worry about me, old lady,” I joked, “I can take care of myself.”

She glared at me. “I’m serious, Nav. If you see a chance to get out, you take it.”

My face dropped. Something curled up and settled heavy within my throat. “I’m her cavalier,” I weakly countered.

“You shouldn’t be. You owe us nothing. The Ninth has already taken far more from you than it ever should have. If you let her keep taking, before long there won’t be any of you left.” I stared at her helplessly. I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t just leave, but if she had asked me why, I wouldn’t have been able to tell her. She held my eyes for a time before she let go of my wrist, apparently satisfied that her point had been made. She nodded, exactly once. “Go.”

I returned her gesture, but slowly, more of a bow of the head than a nod. Then I turned away, and I followed my necromancer.

* * *

“This is the third funeral I’ve held here this year,” Teacher said. He stood before the altar in the great chapel of the Mithraeum, surrounded by hundreds of candles he had lit, one at a time, by himself. “I didn’t expect to hold one for someone I had already mourned.”

Ianthe shuffled uncomfortably at his side. “Teacher, if I had known — “ she lied.

“How could you have known? I do not blame you Ianthe, Pyrrha chose her path willingly.” Ianthe had not expected to learn who the occupant of the body was, but the moment the Kindly Prince looked at her eyes, he knew. The crew of the Mithraeum now numbered only two, and Ianthe struggled to cope with the idea of being alone with this man for eternity. The cavernous space station had already felt quiet and empty when it was the six of them, and now, it was the suffocation of sound. The body of the Saint of Duty was not given the same lavish treatment as Cytherea’s was. There were no rose petals. Teacher told her that the man had eschewed such things, but he needn’t have said anything. Ianthe never suffered under the delusion that the Saint of Duty was a soft man.

“I suppose we mourn the both of them.” Ianthe said, desperate for something to say, to break up the looming quiet, the awfulness of God’s complete lack of accusal.

“I suppose we do,” Teacher murmured. His eyes were difficult to read at the best of times, but here, they were an endless traverse, leading to an unknown destination. He stepped closer and laid a single hand on the Saint of Duty’s cheek, the touch so light his fingertips barely made contact. “Gideon earned his epithet. All of the Saints, their epithets came from their cavaliers, and he was no exception, but he was the only one who fit it even better. None of the others took our mission as seriously, myself included. He was going to see it through, either to its end or his own, no matter what happened. He was the only one of us who did not succumb to the weight of time. He bore it on shoulders fashioned from iron.”

He brushed one thumb along the Saint of Duty’s cheek. His soft features did not waver. He looked upon the body of his friend with the same implacable calm that always drove Harrow insane.

“And Pyrrha! God, Pyrrha,” Teacher shook his head fondly, “she was a force to be reckoned with. She was the only one of them I could never command. She didn’t give a damn if I was God, when she was right, she knew it, and she refused to give. We were at each other’s throats more often than not, but I think I needed that from someone. I’ve missed her so much, these many years; I only wish I could have spoken to her again, without the pretense getting in the way. Perhaps she could have called me a fool one last time.”

“She did,” Ianthe said unthinkingly. Teacher looked at her questioningly. “She said to tell you that you still need somebody to remind you.”

A wry little smile crossed his face. “Of course she did.”

Ianthe stood awkwardly by Teacher’s side. Coronabeth had always been better at these kinds of things, but even then, Ianthe was usually better than this. If it were anyone else, she figured she might have been able to spin some eloquently empty words of reassurance, to fill the silence without having to get her hands dirty and actually connect with their grief. But this man was not somebody who would accept meaningless, sugary words. She doubted he would chastise her for it, but the mere idea of trying that with him was laughable. It just was not The Thing To Do.

“You’re lucky, you know?” Teacher continued, “You can count yourself among the very, very small number of people who’ve faced Pyrrha Dve in her full fury and lived to tell the tale.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“That’s my girl,” he said with a watery chuckle. Ianthe realized that God was _crying,_ and as she thought about it, it occurred to her that she had never seen him do that before. Not even during Cytherea’s funeral. “I apologize,” he said, and Ianthe briefly pondered what the hell happened in this man’s life that he felt the need to apologize for crying at a funeral, “I always try to make these things a celebration of their life, not an excuse to wallow in misery. But truth be told, I don’t think I have it in me to celebrate today.”

Teacher placed his hand on the Saint of Duty’s other cheek, cradling his face in his hands with reverent care. “Five friends, gone, all within one year. I’ve gone millenia without losing so many.”

“I am sorry, Teacher.” Ianthe murmured, and to her own surprise, she found that she meant it.

He did not acknowledge her. “I’m the only one left. God, what happened? What happened to us, Gideon? What happened to us, Pyrrha?” He leaned over, bracing his weight on his elbows, and rested his forehead upon the Saint of Duty’s. He pressed their bodies together, he closed his eyes, and he shook silently. He was human, then. Not the Necrolord Prime, not a God or an Emperor. He was John Gaius, and he looked old, and achingly tired. Never in her life had Ianthe felt so much like an intruder, like a voyeur stealing a glimpse of something she had no right to witness.

He did not speak again, and Ianthe slipped out of the chapel unnoticed, to allow him the dignity of his grief.

* * *

The Hermes was gone — honestly, we really should have expected that. The only thing there was the tiny, beat-up shuttle Coronabeth arrived in, visible across the open expanse between the lip of the Ninth and where we had landed. The wind up there was blustery, without the protection the Ninth proper had from its position below the ground. I stared at the crappy shuttle.

“Okay, well fitting all four of us in there is going to suck,” I remarked.

“We have a ship we can use in the hangar,” you said, “it isn’t much, but it’s better than that.”

“We’re going to need to split up,” Warden cut in, staring at the shuttle for a moment before turning to us, “I’m going to the Sixth.”

“Warden, you’re not going to do any good there. If we don’t stop her, all of the Houses will be gone.”

They shook their head, “When the Sixth was built, they knew that its contents would be too valuable to risk. It’s an archive — it holds our history, our knowledge. The loss of all of that would be irreplaceable. So they designed it to be able to move. It isn’t just a planetary station; it’s a ship. In the event of a catastrophic emergency, the entire Sixth installation can separate from the planet and evacuate. We call it the Alexandria protocol. My mother — _Palamedes_ _’_ mother — is the head archivist of the Sixth, she has the authority to initiate it. I am going to ensure my House’s safety.”

“Okay, I think I see the plan,” I said, pacing back and forth as I followed my train of thought, “Warden, you’ve got the Sixth. The Ninth is already handled. Coronabeth, you can help with the Third, and we can probably get in touch with Judith to help with the Second — hell, to help with all of them. She can get the Cohort involved. That’s already four out of eight taken care of.”

You looked at me strangely, “What are you talking about, Nav?”

I made a vague gesture. “We need to get everybody out of her way before we let her blow up the sun.”

“Why would we let her do that?”

“That was the whole plan!” I insisted, “She wants to kill the Emperor? Fucking super! Same here! We just need to get everyone out of dodge before she does it.”

“That was _not_ the plan.”

I stopped my pacing and stared at you. “Well then what the hell is _your_ plan?”

“We get in contact with the Emperor. If we let him know the situation, he can put her back to sleep.”

I shook my head. “No way, no fucking way. We want to _kill_ that dude, Harrow, we’re not working with him.”

“Since when do I want to kill the Emperor?” you exclaimed, exasperated.

“I thought — I thought you were on the same page as us!” I sputtered.

“I just lied to him so I could live!”

“He has to die, Harrow.”

“No.”

“He told the Saint of Duty to kill you!”

“ _No.”_

“He committed genocide!”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe he would do that.”

“It’s the truth, Reverend Daughter,” Warden said. “Commander Light showed me the records — I’m not just going by his word.”

“Then they were forged! You were lied to, Warden. The Kindly Prince is not a mass murderer.”

“He’s not the man you think he is, Harrow,” Coronabeth said quietly.

“But he’s… he’s _God,_ _”_ you said helplessly.

“Yeah, well God can get fucked.” Normally, me saying something like that wouldn’t warrant much comment. But there was just one small problem.

I said it through your mouth.

The words that I was supposed to say came from your lips, and the instant they did your eyes went wide with fear and you slapped your hand over your mouth. There was a long moment of silence as everybody stared at you in shock. Warden was the first to collect themself.

“The barrier is collapsing,” Warden said, “you need to finish the process before we go off-world, it’s too risky to let it go any longer.”

Your hand was still partially covering your mouth as you opened and closed your lips, searching for words. A biting gust of wind sliced through us, and I wrapped my arms around my torso, trying to keep warm. All four of us shivered, and all four of us were miserable, but you? You looked like you were about to have a panic attack. The edges of your composure were visibly fraying. Luckily, Coronabeth seemed to pick up on your distress.

“If we’re going to figure this out, we should get out of the cold,” Coronabeth concluded, “Let’s regroup in the hangar. Warden, maybe you could help me go through the shuttle and take stock of what supplies we’ve got? Gideon, Harrowhark, why don’t you check out the ship in the hangar and do the same.”

We all nodded, and you and I broke away from them, making our way back down into the Ninth.

* * *

The hangar was cramped and dusty, barely big enough to fit the ship it housed. The transport itself was an ancient, derelict rust bucket, right at home on the Ninth. It was designed to carry ten people on a reasonably long-distance journey, so compared to Coronabeth’s shuttle it was positively roomy. It was decorated with bones — naturally — and filled with narrow hallways and low ceilings. The helm was not designed for a whole crew, it was designed for one person to fly, so it was pretty much just a chair in a room the size of a broom closet. We explored a little further, and wound up in the bunk room — a series of tiny, moldering cots, which I did not plan to use, no matter how long we were stuck there. I sat on the rusted metal railing at the foot of one of the cots.

You were still in business mode, like before, efficient and purposeful, but I could see how fragile that facade was. There was a desperation in your eyes, and I reckoned you were not far from a full-on mental breakdown. Apparently you were unwilling to breach the silence, so I did it for you.

“Alright, let’s do this Nonagesimus.”

“Warden was wrong about perfect Lyctorhood Nav.” Your voice was thin and weak.

“What would happen if we tried and it didn’t work?”

“Our souls would devour one another in an attempt to find fuel for the reaction. The result… it would be an abomination. A mindless, ravenous creature, with all of the power of a Lyctor behind it. It is a risk we cannot take, under any circumstances. We can’t do it.”

“Fine. We won’t risk it. But you’re still going to be a Lyctor.”

Your eyes went wide. “No. Absolutely not. We take the alternate option; with what I’ve learned about thalergy manipulation, I should be able to sever the remaining bond between our souls. You will live, and I will make do as a normal necromancer.”

“You need to eat me, Nonagesimus. There’s no way in hell we can take her on if you don’t. This isn’t a fight we can win as normal people; you need to be a Lyctor.”

“I cannot ask that of you, Nav.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. This is what I’m for, Nonagesimus. You need to let me do my job.”

“I have already taken far too much from you, Griddle. I have taken your childhood, your freedom, your life. I will take no more. You owe me nothing.”

“Nonagesimus. Harrow. My mistress of eternal twilight. Shut up, and eat me.”

“I am not going to enable this bizarre, self-destructive urge you seem to hold,” you declared haughtily, as if I had ever been cowed by your theatrics.

“Eat. Me.” I growled, standing up and looming over you.

“No!” you shouted. You stared at me defiantly. I ground my teeth. “You will have your freedom, Nav, whether you want it or not. I made a promise. I am not going to take your soul. I will never take your soul. I am going to sever our bond, and you will be free of me, eighteen years too late.”

You moved towards the exit, probably looking to calm down before you broke us apart. Something bubbled up inside of me. I had fought for you. I had been thrown off a cliff for you. I had suffered through the River for you. I had done _everything_ for you, and still you would not take what I was offering.

“Why do you keep doing this?” I demanded, “I want to do this for you, why won’t you let me? Why don’t you want — “ I bit off the end of my sentence, squeezing my eyes shut. You stopped short. You were not looking at me.

“Is that what you think?” you asked, voice flat. Slowly, you turned back around, and revealed eyes filled with blazing fire. Not a fire of anger, not exactly, but something close to it. “You think I don’t want you?” You fixed me with those burning eyes, and I looked away, cheeks burning with humiliation. “Look at me, Gideon.” I couldn’t do it. I could see you moving closer to me in my peripheral vision, but I couldn’t see what you were doing. I closed my eyes again, my breath growing fast and panicky. You grabbed my face with one hand, fingers digging into each cheek, and roughly forced me to face towards you. I still kept my eyes closed. Once again, you said, “Look at me, Gideon.”

I was helpless to deny you. My eyes fluttered hesitantly open. The fire was there, yearning for kindling, with a sadness behind it that hurt far more than any burn. It did not waver as you asked, “That’s what you think? That I don’t want you?”

“I — “ I choked, but did not continue.

“Answer me Gideon!” you demanded.

“Yes!”

You yanked my head down into a searing kiss. I inhaled sharply through my nose, my eyes going wide. I had to stumble backwards as you pushed me until my back slammed into the wall. You pinned me against it with a furious claim. When I kissed you in the Tomb you were hesitant, uncertain. There was no hesitance now. No uncertainty. You kissed me ferociously, ravenously, and I was swept up in the tide of you. Your teeth dug into my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and I moaned breathlessly. Your hand found its way from my face to the back of my head. It tugged my hair, hard, forcing my head to tilt back, and oh, oh, I had not known that I liked that, but God, I did. The noise I made was pathetic.

You set upon my neck, kissing and biting, and I gasped for breath. It was ridiculous, you were so much shorter than me, I was ten times stronger than you, but you had me pinned to the wall, and I could not have thrown you off if my life depended on it. Not when your hand crept under my shirt, your palm sliding over my abs. Not when your teeth left sweet, possessive bruises on my neck, even if they faded almost instantly.

“You would think for even a single moment that I don’t _want_ you?” you hissed into my neck. Your hand kept sliding upwards, pushing up my bandeau and palming my breast.

“Haa — “ I could not hold in my desperate noises.

“Then you are a fool.” Your other hand flicked open the button of my trousers and dipped inside, and I learned that when you were in this kind of mood, you absolutely did not fuck around. You had three fingers inside me before I could even blink, but it didn’t matter how rough you were, because I had never been this wet in my life. You fucked me the same way you fought our enemies — savagely, with a focused, feral abandon I could not match.

When I imagined what it would be like to have sex, in the long and lonely nights growing up on the Ninth, I always imagined myself as the swaggering hero in some convoluted fantasy. All the women would swoon over me, and they would want me to take them, and that’s exactly what I would do. I never concerned myself with _how_ I would get this imagined sexual prowess, despite never having even kissed someone. My mind just skipped past that part. But I was always the one doing the taking. So when you dismantled me, it was a revelation, the discovery of how badly I wanted it. Of how good it felt when you were rough with me, how good it felt to be helpless beneath the whirlwind that was Harrowhark Nonagesimus. I was overwhelmed with the knowledge of what I wanted. I wanted you to hold me down, I wanted you to make me cry and beg for it, I wanted you to destroy me. I should have been upset to feel your desperate anger and sadness unleashed this way, but I couldn’t think.

You pulled my earlobe between your teeth and used your thumb to rub my clit, and I came with an explosive cry. But even as the orgasm pulsed through me, you did not stop. You ignored my oversensitivity and kept right on going. I squirmed and cried — actually cried, tears flowing down my face with the sheer overwhelming too-muchness of it — but I did not ask you to stop. My wriggling intensified, and you took your hand away from my breast and brought it to my throat — not to choke me, but to remind me.

“I want you more than you could possibly imagine,” you rumbled. I whined pathetically, wanting to escape the sensitivity, wanting it to never stop. The hand on my throat squeezed lightly; it wasn’t enough to cut off my breath, but it sent a bolt of pleasure through me nonetheless.

“Harrow,” I pleaded.

“I want to devour you whole,” you growled like a feral animal. I belatedly realized that you were crying. My legs were jelly, and they started to give out, but you just pressed your body harder against mine, pinning me in place. I was getting close again, I could feel it, and your unrelenting pace did not waver. “I want you to be _mine._ _”_

I came with your fierce claim echoing in my mind, and I was yours, yours, yours.

My legs gave out completely, and you held me as I slid down the wall until I was sitting and you were kneeling in front of me, my whole body shuddering with the aftershocks. Your hand slid out of me and your head fell to my shoulder. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. I felt your tears dripping onto my shirt. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t have found the words even if I did. Our bodies were furnace-hot, pressed together.

“But I have to be better than that,” you whispered, broken and longing. “I have to do the right thing.” Your hand came to rest on my sternum, palm flat to my chest. You took a deep breath, and pulled away from my shoulder, looking me right in the eye as you said, “I’m sorry.”

I realized what you meant a moment too late. “Wait — “

There was a tugging sensation in my chest, and a sharp pain that made me gasp. Your tears kept flowing, but your face was stony and resolute. Your hand began to glow, threads of golden light weaving around it like veins. Some of them went from your hand to my chest. Others kept going up your arm, fading out of sight after a few inches.

“No, Harrow, don’t,” I pleaded, but you did not stop. You ran your hand slowly down my chest, and with each inch, it was like something was being torn from me. It was not a physical sensation; it was an agony of the soul, a vast, empty feeling, like every ounce of light and warmth was being pulled out of me. I cried out, choked and frightened, as I felt my entire existence become hollow. A dreadful, pervading loneliness filled my being. The world narrowed, everything else falling away until all that existed was you and me, and you were pulling away. I wanted to reach out, to claw at you and make you stay, but I couldn’t move. You dragged that golden light down the meridian of my body and cut through us. I sobbed, “No, no, Harrow, please, stop.”

My words grew weaker with every breath. The world darkened.

Your face was grim and determined through your tears. I saw the exact same pain that I felt in your eyes. And then I couldn’t see you at all. The emptiness was complete. I was insensate, my world a void of light and sound and feeling. My breath grew shallower and shallower. With one last final pull, you ripped our souls apart, and the world went dark.


	9. The Powers That Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way that this story turned out leaves it divided into two fairly distinct halves, with the eighth chapter as a dividing line between them. We’re getting properly into the second half now, and I’m excited for you all to see what I've got planned, because it’s a bit different than the first half.

It's growing harder and harder to tell where your story ends and mine begins. It's all getting jumbled up together in my head. All I can do is keep talking, and keep listening. Because I can hear you, Harrow. I can see you. Though we were worlds apart then, I am listening now.

Do you hear me? Do you see me?

Are you listening?

* * *

You guided the Hermes through the beautiful blue skies of the First, over clouds and oceans. The sun was painfully bright, hanging low in the late afternoon sky, lighting the thick carpet of clouds in shades of fiery golden orange, contrasted against deep, purple shadows. Though there was no sign of your destination beneath the veil that covered the surface, you dipped down through the clouds. Rain pitter-pattered against the hull of the Hermes the moment you dropped out of the upper atmosphere.

On the horizon appeared a familiar collection of crumbling spires and moldering grandeur. At first it was only a silhouette in the distance, but as you grew closer, it emerged from the fog. The Hermes circled Canaan house in a lazy, descending spiral. The stormy clouds above draped the looming towers and withering gardens in moody twilight. The landing platform approached, and you cruised to a gentle landing. The ship rocked as it made contact with solid ground, and you cut the engines. The Crown Princess of Ida poked her head through the door.

“Oh, have we arrived?” she asked brightly. You did not deign to answer such an unnecessary question. Instead, you braced yourself internally as you walked past Coronabeth towards the exit, prompting her to follow behind you. The journey here had taken many hours, and you had barely spoken to her that entire time, but apparently that diligent effort was all for naught, because there was no way you could avoid her now, and she seemed determined to make idle chit-chat with you. You ignored her.

The doors to the Hermes opened, and you put up the hood of your robes as you stepped out onto the walkway. You had a full coat of face paint on, and it simply wouldn’t do to let the rain ruin it, would it? Coronabeth did not put up her hood, because her outfit did not have one. Her clothes had been ruined as thoroughly as everyone else’s, soaked through with blood from the victims we tried to save, but unlike you, she didn’t have a personal closet on the Hermes. She grabbed some of Gideon Prime’s clothes, as he was the only person tall enough to match her. The plain, practical clothing did not suit her at all, making her look awkward and underdressed. She rushed ahead, looking to escape the rain as quickly as possible. You walked at a leisurely pace.

The two of you entered the atrium where we were given our key rings. The huge, open space felt even more moldy and run-down than before, with water dripping from the leaky, glass roof. On the other side of the room, between the twin colonnades, were two staircases, which curved around and met in the center, turning into one staircase that ran the rest of the short distance to the second floor. A dry fountain sat between them; it must have been impressive and beautiful back in its day, but now only looked depressing and filthy, with a pool of slimy, stagnant water in its bottom bowl. Coronabeth took her sweet time looking all around, taking it in, while you kept going, moving determinedly towards your destination. When she noticed you had gotten ahead of her, she jogged up the stairs to catch up with you.

“Feels strange to be back, doesn’t it?” she remarked. You didn’t answer, and her face fell, just slightly. Nevertheless, she persisted. “Do you think the equipment will still be working?”

“Hopefully.”

“I can’t say I care for this rain. You can’t exactly go outside on the Third, so we never have to worry about it. Does it rain much on the Ninth?”

“No,” you dismissed, with growing irritation.

“That’s a shame. You seem to have a very moody aesthetic, it feels like it would be almost fitting. Don’t you agree?”

“Miss Tridentarius, please, stop trying to make small talk with me. I have seen my House slaughtered. We are facing an enemy that could be the end of everything we know. I am in no mood for your banal pleasantries. We have a job to do.”

“I am trying to provide you with some _company,_ you uptight little nun,” Coronabeth chastised angrily.

“I do not recall asking for your company. I do not need company.”

“And that’s why you left your cavalier behind, is it?”

You stopped abruptly, and with a wave of your hand, cleaved Coronabeth’s tongue to her palate. She made a furious noise and clutched at her mouth. “You are just like your sister,” you hissed, “you both presume too much. You understand nothing of me, or my cavalier.”

There was a moment of silence as you tried to glare Coronabeth down, but she met you unshaken. She drew herself up to her full — and quite considerable — height, head tilted up imperiously, and switched to Imperial Sign Language,

“You’re more like my sister than I am. You left your cavalier behind for the same reason she left me behind.”

You growled and turned away from her, freeing her mouth with a dismissive gesture as you walked away. Coronabeth followed behind, but made no attempt to catch up with you, choosing instead to let you stew in your own misery. You needed no encouragement. You had plenty of practice.

* * *

I woke up on the floor of a tiny, dingy shuttle. It was the same shuttle Coronabeth had arrived in on the Ninth — same cramped, uncomfortable interior, same frowning portrait of my mom on the wall. Warden sat in the Pilot’s chair, though they must have heard me stirring, because they turned to look at me over their shoulder.

As I fully came back to consciousness, I had the sudden realization that I was _ravenously_ hungry. So hungry that it hurt. I groaned. Warden got up, extricated a nutrient bar from somewhere within their cloak, and handed it to me.

“Eat.”

I didn’t require telling twice. I ripped the wrapper off and devoured it like a wild animal. It was bland and gross, as nutrient bars always are, but I scarfed it down in approximately three seconds. They pulled a water bottle out of their robe next, and I chugged that down almost as fast. They rooted around in a crate on the floor behind them and dug out some more food, which I eagerly tore into. When I finally began to slow down, I asked them,

“What the hell is happening to me?”

“You haven’t eaten in days. That isn’t something you can get away with when you’re not a Lyctor.”

Oh. Right. That. It was a stark reminder, my brain having been too focused on the hunger to consider my situation. I slowly put down the last bit of nutrient bar I was eating and lowered my gaze. I glanced over and out the front window of the shuttle, though I couldn’t see anything that would indicate where we were.

“We’re en-route to the Sixth as we speak,” Warden sensed my question, “this shuttle is… not fast. But we’re about halfway there.” They spoke delicately, which was probably nice of them, but I was a little bit resentful about it. I stood up, and was immediately confronted by how disgusting I was. My clothes were permeated with blood, which had dried out and left it crusty, flaking off bits of dried blood with every movement. Warden gave me a pointed look, and gestured towards a door behind them. “There’s a sonic in the bathroom, and there should be at least one set of spare clothes in that box over there.”

The bathroom would have made a broom closet look roomy. The door opened to reveal a toilet sitting about a foot away from the entrance, and that was it. The sonic was hanging on a hook on the wall. Warden gave me some privacy as I stripped off my disgusting clothes, and I closed the bathroom door to clean myself with the sonic while I sat on the toilet. There was a meditative roteness to the action. I probably should have used that time to think about my situation, but my brain was a pile of sludge. I wasn’t really thinking about anything at all. My mind felt empty and dead.

The clothes in the box must have belonged to Coronabeth, so they were a fine fit for me, if a bit big. They didn’t look like normal Third attire; she must have picked them up while she was traveling. I pulled on a set of worryingly tight pants, a sleeveless shirt with a dangerously low plunging neckline, and a leather jacket that looked more expensive than the shuttle itself. I wasn’t really in a state to properly appreciate it, but I had a sense that I looked damn good. What can I say? The princess has got style.

I took a deep, slow breath, in and out, and I started to feel almost human again. I leaned back against the wall.

“How long was I out?”

“Ten hours, give or take.”

“And Nonagesimus?”

“The Reverend Daughter and miss Tridentarius took the Ninth’s shuttle, and are headed to the First, to get in contact with the Emperor.”

“What’s the situation?”

“We’re going to the Sixth, to initiate the Alexandria protocol. This was the only way off world for you, other than evacuating with the rest of the Ninth. I figured that you would be less than satisfied with that solution, so I brought you with me.”

“I appreciate that,” I mumbled.

“Of course.”

“You think we’ll be able to track Alecto down?”

“I doubt it. Even if we could find her, there’s no way we’d ever be able to keep pace with her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She can travel via the River, and… you can’t.”

That hadn’t even occurred to me. I hung my head and said, with extreme passion, “Fuck.”

Warden winced sympathetically. “I’ll be honest, I’m concerned about what she’ll be able to do with that advantage. She seemed experienced with River travel; she won’t need much recovery time between dives. I have no idea what her objectives will be while she waits for the Beasts to arrive.”

“Goddammit, Nonagesimus,” I whispered.

Warden sat down on a crate opposite me. They leaned forward, elbows on their knees, hands clasped together in their lap. “I’m sorry, Nav.”

“Not your fault my necro is a righteous cunt sometimes.” I said. Warden’s mouth quirked to the side, lips drawn thin in displeasure. They didn’t say whatever was clearly on their mind, so I drew it out of them. “You got something to say, Warden?”

“The Reverend Daughter can hardly be criticized for not wanting to let her cavalier die.”

“Yeah, actually, she can be criticized. In fact I’m doing it right now! This is me, criticizing her. You seriously think we’re going to win this fight as normal people? That’s what being a cavalier is, that’s what I’m _for._ She’s the one who couldn’t follow through.”

I leaned in closer, folding my legs so I could shift my weight forwards. I wanted to punch the pitying, disgusted look right off of Warden’s stupid face.

“If you think that’s what being a cavalier means, then I’m _glad_ you’re not her cavalier anymore.”

“Fuck you, Warden! Are you seriously going to look at me with a straight face and say that Camilla wouldn’t have died for Palamedes?”

“He never would have asked that of me — of her.”

“That’s not the point. If he _did_ ask her, don’t tell me she wouldn’t have done it.”

“If he was the kind of person who was capable of asking her to do that, she never would have sworn that oath.”

“For fuck’s sake — okay, forget about the asking. She wouldn’t do it? She wouldn’t die to make him a Lyctor, to give him a fighting chance against someone like Alecto? If she was in my place, are you really saying she wouldn’t have done it?”

They mirrored themself gently, but firmly, “If she was the kind of person who was willing to do that, he never would have sworn that oath.”

I sat back, thoroughly thrown off by their answer. What the hell was the point of a cavalier, if they weren’t willing to do that? But Camilla was probably the best cavalier I had ever seen.

Warden must have seen the incredulous look on my face. “If you think that’s what one flesh, one end means, then you have no idea what being a cavalier is about.”

Without waiting for a rebuttal, they stood up and walked back over to the pilot’s chair. I wouldn’t have had one even if they had waited.

We rode the stele pathway in meditative silence. There wasn’t much actual piloting that needed to be done — once a ship hooks on to a stele, you basically just keep the engines on and wait — so Warden rifled through their medical kit and took stock of what was left. There was plenty of time to think, but I didn’t even do that. My brain still felt fuzzy, scrambled, and it was difficult to hold a thought in my mind. The view out the front window was not helpful — the way that steles contort space makes everything outside the pathway look warped beyond recognition — so I had no way of marking our progress.

I’m not sure how long we sat there — a few hours, probably — before Warden noticed something on the screen beside the pilot’s chair. They perked up immediately, which grabbed my attention. They read whatever was on that screen, pursed their lips, and furrowed their brow in concentration and concern.

“Problem?” I asked.

“We’re being followed,” they muttered. I stood up and looked over their shoulder. I’m not a pilot, so I wasn’t especially familiar with all the technical details that were shown on the screen, but I understood enough to tell what they were talking about. A ship — a _big_ ship — was moving directly towards us, and it was moving a hell of a lot faster than we were.

“Alecto?”

They shook their head, “Too large to be the Hermes. Unless she picked up a new ship.”

“Shit.” My hand instinctively reached for the hilt of my sword — not that it would even have been useful in that situation — only to find nothing there. Right. “What do we do? Can we outrun them?”

“This ship is _not_ fast. I don’t think we could outrun an especially committed geriatric.”

There was nothing we could do — we could only watch as the ship drew closer, and closer, and closer. If they were looking to kill us, we were almost certainly going to die. Warden kept their hands on the controls and their eyes on the screen. The ship slowed to match our speed as it got closer, and they brought it in until it was only a few hundred feet behind us.

Something appeared on the screen.

“They’ve fired a projectile,” Warden said, and danced their fingers across the controls, evading to the left. A shape flashed by us, visible only for an instant before we turned too far away. There was no light coming from it, so it couldn’t be something self-propelled, like a missile. Another shot, and Warden swerved out of the way again. We had precious little room to maneuver without dropping out of the stele pathway. They acquitted themself admirably, but there was no way to escape this forever.

The fourth projectile hit us, and I shouted and threw myself to the ground as a spike of metal pierced through the shuttle’s hull with a screech of tearing metal. Air escaped through the hole it tore. Four prongs snapped outwards from the end of the spike, and it was yanked backwards by some unseen force, the spikes digging into the hull and holding it in place. There was a hissing whine, and some kind of sealant foam sprayed outwards from the head of the spike in every direction, closing up the hole behind it.

The ship lurched, and the harpoon began to reel us in. The shuttle’s engines groaned, but the harpoon’s cable didn’t even really need to actually pull us, just to guide the shuttle, pulling it through an open airlock door and making sure we weren’t smashed apart as their ship accelerated and caught up with us.

The space around us rippled as we were pulled through the air shield. The walls of the ship cut off our view of the outside like a curtain being pulled across a stage, and we were swallowed by a sea of dull, gunmetal grey. The hangar doors slid shut with dreadful finality. The engines of our little shuttle kept us floating in the air, inches above the floor. Warden eased us down to the ground.

They sighed and switched the engines off. “Are you ready, Nav?”

I looked at them like they had grown an extra head. “Am I — I don’t have a _weapon,_ Warden!”

“Yep,” they said, popping their lips at the P, and hit the button to lower the entrance ramp, standing up to face our welcoming committee. I fell into a fighting stance, though I had no idea what I actually thought that would accomplish. The ramp lock disengaged with a hiss and began to lever downwards, slowly revealing the scene before us. Ten grim, black-clad soldiers pointed rifles at us. Warden offered an amused smile and raised their hands, holding them up at chest height. I looked at the soldiers. I looked at Warden. I looked at the soldiers again. I begrudgingly raised my hands.

Footsteps approached the ship, and the soldiers parted to let somebody else through. A man came into view, a man I had seen only in pictures. A short man with dark skin, a shaved head, and a salt and pepper beard approached us, coming to a stop just before the entrance ramp. He did not have the same deadly serious expression as his soldiers. His face was soft, calm.

Commander Light, the general of Blood of Eden, my mother’s successor, smiled, and said in a warm, quiet voice that seemed much too deep for his stature, “Miss Hect. I apologize for my insistence, but I’d like to have a little chat.”

* * *

We were led at gunpoint through the winding halls of a ship that could not have been more different from the Empire’s fleet. Ships from the Nine Houses were macabre space-mausoleums with engines strapped on them as an afterthought. _This_ ship was designed by somebody with a serious fetish for right angles. They were a boring person, who ate unflavored nutrient paste for every meal by choice, and considered colors other than grey a frivolous indulgence. It was a pile of unadorned metal boxes stapled together with narrow hallways whose ceilings were _just_ low enough to be irritating.

Warden and I were shunted down into two supremely uncomfortable high-backed chairs, and Light took a seat across from us at the small, metal table.

He smiled, and asked, “Could I get the two of you anything? I’m afraid we’re low on tea at the moment, but sparkling water, perhaps?”

Warden shook their head. I looked back and forth between them and Light a few times, then slowly raised my hand. I wasn’t sure what sparkling water was, but it sounded like a good thing from the way he said it. Light nodded at another soldier standing behind him, who walked out of the room, then he turned back to face us.

“How have you been faring, miss Hect?”

Warden did not correct him, but instead deadpanned, “You know Commander, I’ll be honest, I haven’t been great.”

He chuckled, “So I’ve heard.”

Warden narrowed their eyes at him. “Been hearing a lot about me lately?”

“I have, actually, but believe it or not, I’m not here for you.” He turned his gaze to me. “I apologize, I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I? How rude of me. My name is The Wound is the Place Where the Light Enters You Uske Ghar Mein Der Hai Andher Nahin Hand in Unlovable Hand, but you may call me Light.”

I nodded and gave an awkward little half wave. “Name’s Gideon.”

“Yes, and I have been _dying_ to meet you, miss Nav.” He looked like he was about to continue, but he was cut off by the soldier returning, bearing a glass. “Ah, thank you, Halcyon.” He proffered the mug of what I assumed was sparkling water, and I took it from him. Upon inspection, I realized that it was just water, but with _bubbles_ in it. I did not trust it one fucking bit. Had I known what it was, I wouldn’t have asked for it in the first place, but now that I had, it seemed like kind of a dick move to not drink any of it. I sipped at it, and tried very hard to avoid scrunching up my face in displeasure.

“Thanks.”

“I had a visit from a… well, I wouldn’t quite say a _friend_ of yours, but an acquaintance, if nothing else. She had all sorts of interesting things to tell me. How exciting, to get to meet Awake’s daughter.”

Oh.

“Never knew her,” was all I said.

“Regardless. She was a great woman you know. But unfortunately, the reason you’re here has more to do with your father.”

“Yeah, I know, you wanna kill the guy, join the club.”

He laughed — he had a quiet, genuine laugh, his eyes turning up warmly at the sides. “It is becoming quite a large club, isn’t it? But miss Nav, you do realize that means you’re going to have to die as well?”

He said it completely nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather.

“Uhh, what?”

“The wound John Gaius created cuts far deeper than just the atrocities of his Empire. I know you’ve traveled through the River, I know you’ve seen it. The waters of the afterlife, polluted and vile.”

“Are they not supposed to be like that?”

He shook his head sadly. “No, they most certainly are not. The River is supposed to be clear and beautiful, a realm of passage for the dead to cross over to the other side. But now it is murky and clouded, and the dead swim restlessly, without any sight of shore.”

“I told you before, Commander, and I’ll tell you again,” Warden interjected, “that’s a myth. That isn’t how necromancy works.”

“There are many myths surrounding John Gaius, miss Hect, but that is not one of them.”

“Uh, anybody want to explain what this has to do with me?”

“Necromancy must be cleansed from this universe, miss Nav. Only then will the afterlife begin to heal. Every trace of it must die, every trace of him and his Empire, and that includes you.”

“Why do you seem to think that I — “ I began, cutting myself off with a frustrated noise, “I’m just some random chick, man! I don’t have — fuck, I don’t know — special God powers or whatever the hell you think I’ve got. I’m not even a necromancer!”

“Regardless, we cannot allow the daughter of John Gaius to survive; our mission is too important. I’m sure you understand,” he said, conciliatory.

I sighed wearily. “I understand,” I said. He smiled sadly, and I could see the respect in his eyes. “I understand that you can suck my dick, you pompous, egotistical jack— “

He flicked his eyes to the soldier in the corner, and without any further prompting, they smashed the butt of their rifle against my face and cut me off. I groaned, and spat a gob of blood onto the floor. Light did not look even remotely upset, remaining perfectly calm and affable. Warden made no move, keeping their breathing very carefully controlled, brow set like granite.

“You shot our shuttle with nonlethal capture harpoons. If you wanted us dead, we would be. Why are we here, Commander?”

“You are to be bargaining chips, and then you are to die. Miss Nav is a useful backup plan, in case our plot against Gaius fails, and you are going to help us acquire miss Tridentarius.”

“Fuck you,” I grunted.

“You have no idea what Alecto is about to do, do you?” Warden asked.

“Of course I do,” he responded, “our goals align. She is the Death of the Lord. She will kill him, and all she requires is for us to keep her enemies at bay, which, in this case, means the two of you.”

So she didn’t tell him that killing her would kill the Emperor. That much made sense to me — she could not afford to die until the Resurrection Beasts were close enough to get pulled into the black hole, and Light would be unlikely to pass up such an opportunity.

“And if you’re here when that happens, you’re going to die along with him,” Warden said. “When the Emperor dies, the sun will collapse.”

“Ah, yes, of course, that old tale. He’s gone to such great lengths to ensure that that notion keeps floating around. Awfully convenient for him, isn’t it? That to move against him inherently spells death. No. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about John Gaius, it is that he _lies._ I’ve had my doubts about that little tale for a long time, and Alecto confirmed them.”

She lied to him, I realized, she told him the exact opposite of what she told us. The arc of her plan began to fall into place in my mind. Light could help keep us off her back while she waited for the Beasts to get close, and when she died, Blood of Eden’s leadership would get caught up in the aftermath, just like everyone else.

“If you seriously think she’s on your side, then you’re a far bigger fool than I ever thought.”

“Of course she is not on our side, I never claimed she was. I merely claimed that our goals align. The Hermes is a very distinctive ship, we are keeping a close eye on her movements. But enough of this — I decided to speak with you as a courtesy, because I respect you, miss Hect, but you are not going to change my mind.”

“She’s trying to trick you, Commander,” Warden insisted, “You have to let us go! We can stop her! We can stop this!”

Light shook his head sadly, then glanced up at one of the soldiers behind us. “Take them to the brig.”

A pair of hands fell upon each of our shoulders. Warden struggled against their grip. “You are going to die along with us, you goddamn fool, you have to let us go!” Light stood up, and adjusted the collar of his jacket. “Commander, you need to let us go!”

Light turned and walked out the other door as the soldiers dragged us away kicking and screaming.

* * *

The communications room was a small, simple affair. The screen of the communicator was mounted on a desk with a single, wooden chair in front of it. By the usual standards of Canaan house, it was plain, even stark, but the emptiness did nothing to distract from the spots where the bodies of Teacher and Marta Dyas had once lain. They were gone now, but you could see them in your mind, clear as day.

The legs of the chair clacked gently against the ground as you pulled it out and sat down in it, alone in this tiny room. Waiting for Coronabeth to catch up was apparently beneath you, and though she could not have lagged that far behind, she did not arrive. You suspected that she had gotten lost. You did not particularly care.

There was no delay in entangled communications, no need to wait for a signal to travel, so you merely pressed a button, and waited for God to pick up the call. He did not answer immediately — reasonable enough, he was a busy man — and you sat, stock still, posture perfect, for ten minutes. Eventually, the message was received, and the Emperor of the Nine Houses appeared on the screen before you. The sight of him ignited something inside you. Perhaps reverence, or perhaps fear. He looked precisely as ordinary and as terribly divine as he always had, but he carried a harried exhaustion, with bags beneath his eyes, his hair uncombed, his collar rumpled up.

His face cycled rapidly through three expressions — confusion, then pleasant surprise, then hard accusation.

“What have you done with Harrowhark Nonagesimus?” he demanded coolly.

“I am who I am, my Lord,” you said, “it’s true, my body was not my own, but my… unwanted guest, is no longer here.”

He eyed you warily, “And why should I believe you?”

“I can do nothing to prove myself to you, but please, even if you do not believe me, at least listen to what I have to say. We are all in danger.”

After a moment of consideration, he spoke, with obvious uncertainty, “First you’re going to tell who was in your body, and who was in Gideon’s.”

“Nav and I were sharing her body.”

He raised one eyebrow. “And yours?”

It took you a moment to muster yourself.

“My body was possessed by Alecto the First.” He had no dramatic reaction for you, no gasp of shock. He became strangely enraptured, breathing slow and steady, lips ever so slightly parted. You decided to get the rest of it out of the way. “I — I have recovered my body, because she left it to return to her own.”

He closed his eyes, and swallowed thickly. He addressed you with the measured, deliberate calm of a parent trying very hard not to blow up at a misbehaving toddler, “Harrowhark. What have you done?”

And you told him. You told him everything, from the very beginning — minus the part about the rest of us wanting to murder him, but that was probably a wise exclusion. He never erupted at you. He never screamed or berated you. You so desperately wished that he would. He took it all in with the beleaguered calm of a man who has dealt with entirely too much bullshit in his lifetime.

For the first time in a very long while, you felt like a child. But it was more than that. You started to suspect that he _wanted_ you to feel that way. That his demeanor was carefully calculated to shame you far more than any expression of anger ever could. You were not there to see it yourself, but you retained the memories of what happened when I was in your body, and the recollection of him revealing to his lyctors that he had lied, without any hesitation or remorse, colored every single word that he said. Where you had expected to find comfort in his measured calm, you instead found yourself sick to your stomach.

Still, you told him what happened, in as much detail as he requested — which wasn’t a lot. He clearly understood the time pressure posed by Alecto’s presence, and you skimmed over certain things. By the time you realized that you hadn’t even mentioned Coronabeth was with you, the story was over, and he was already in planning mode.

“The Beasts are drawn to me — not as strongly as they are drawn to her, but if I can get close enough to be a more obvious target I may be able to draw them away for a time. I am going to send Ianthe to retrieve you. The two of you can work on tracking her down. When you have found her, contact me, and I will come to put her back to sleep. It’s going to be a close thing, but I think we can pull this off.”

“Of course,” you said, “and Teacher… I am sorry.”

“It’s… well I won’t say it’s alright, Harrow, because it isn’t, but I understand, and I forgive you.” The relief you expected those words to prompt did not come.

“Thank you, Lord.”

He held up a hand. “Please, just call me Teacher.”

The conversation lapsed into silence. It felt as if anything you could possibly have opened your mouth to say would have been an imposition, as if doing anything other than sitting there looking chastened would be impolite. Thankfully, he spared you. He said, “So, you got to meet Pyrrha, then?”

“I did.”

“I feel like I should let you know — Pyrrha is dead.”

You paused for a moment.

“I thought as much. I am sorry for your loss, Teacher.”

“Thank you, Harrow,” he said softly. “Our relationship was not a kind one. But she was my friend.” He then proceeded to follow up that sentence with the most awful thing he could possibly have said to you. He said, “You are too, you know that?”

You blinked. “Pardon?”

“I think of you as my friend as well, Harrowhark. A new one, to be sure, but a friend all the same. I hope you could say the same of me.”

The idea that the Emperor was your friend, that your relationship was so mundane and _equal,_ was blasphemous. He was not your friend — he was _God._ The thought of it was stomach-wrenchingly wrong. But what else were you supposed to say? “I — yes, of course, Teacher.”

He smiled, and you could not comprehend it. How could he be _happy_ that someone like you called him a friend?

“I’m glad you’re alive, Harrow. I should have said that earlier, shouldn’t I?” he laughed, “I feared that you might not be. So it’s good to know that you’re okay.” You weren’t sure how to respond to that, so you didn’t. “I will send Ianthe to collect you shortly. This is going to be dangerous, but I have absolute faith in you.”

“I will not let you down, my Lord.”

“Good luck, Harrow. And stay alive.”

The call ended, and God’s face disappeared from the screen. The room felt suddenly empty. You almost wished that Coronabeth was there, if admitting that wouldn’t have hurt your pride so much. It made you ponder, not for the first time, how speaking to your God could make you feel so alone. You shook your head. He was the Emperor of the Nine Houses, the God who was man and the man who became God, it was not your place to ask such questions.

But the human heart has never once worked that way, and your questions remained, nonetheless.

* * *

Things were not going my way. That’s a fairly generous way to put it, allow me to rephrase — everything was absolutely fucked, and I hated it. I was in a prison cell, in space, with no way out, as I waited for the entire solar system to die. And you weren’t there with me. Is it weird that I wanted you there so I could laugh at you? Because I was sitting in a cell that belonged to an interstellar terrorist organization, and somehow it was _still_ more comfortable than your room on the Hermes. That’s not to say it was cozy by any stretch of the imagination, but there were two cots, and both of them were miles softer than yours.

I availed myself of that small measure of comfort. I sat on one of the cots, sitting up against the headboard with my knees pulled up to my chest and my head buried somewhere between them. I could not see Warden, but I could feel the pitying look they were giving me. It had been at least a few hours since we were tossed in there, though I couldn’t have said exactly how long, and I had been in that position just about the entire time.

So maybe I was moping. Sue me. I earned that much.

Footsteps approached. That at least got me to look up. Another anonymous black-clad soldier came into view, visible through the bars that comprised the front wall. They were holding a tray, carrying enough food and water for both Warden and I, and they held it out through a slot in the door. More importantly, they were wearing a rad pair of sunglasses, just like mine, and I respected them immensely. Warden took the tray from them with a murmured thanks, and the soldier walked away.

Warden placed the tray on the squat table that sat between the two cots, and gestured me over. I ignored them, and planted my head back into the cradle of my knees.

“Oh quit sulking, Nav.”

“I am not — “ I protested, but stopped when I saw the look on Warden’s face, which was a weaponized form of shaming so effective there must have been laws against it. “Okay, fine, yeah, I’m sulking,” I mumbled.

I shuffled over to sit on the edge of the bed, knees almost bumping against the table, and reached across to grab a cup of water. We ate quietly, mechanically, but there was a companionship in that silence that I appreciated. The food was plain and spartan, though it was not insufficient or unappealing.

At length, I said, “Man, we’re prisoners on this ship, how the hell is this food _better_ than what we had on the Ninth?”

Warden smiled. “I can’t say I’ve tried Ninth cuisine. Our food on the Sixth tends to be spicy, so I’m not used to meals this bland.”

“What’s spicy mean?”

Their eyes bugged out of their head. _“What?”_

“Is spicy good? Our food was not good.”

They looked off to the side and bit their lip, face scrunched up in thought. “I’m going to attempt to put this diplomatically,” they said, facing me again, “It seems like the Ninth was a… _challenging_ place to live.”

I snorted, “It was a fucking hellhole.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“I could deal with it. I mean, I hated it, it sucked, but I dealt with it. The thing is, Harrow and I were the… there weren’t many other people our age. We hung around one another a lot, y’know, just to have somebody around other than all the old fucks. But we _hated_ one another. We tore each other apart.”

“What changed?”

I laughed, “You know, honestly, I have no idea. I’m not sure anything did.”

They looked at me sadly. “I don’t understand you, Nav.”

“I get that a lot for someone who is pretty uncomplicated.”

“You were willing to die for somebody you hate.”

I shrugged. “Just trying to be useful to somebody other than myself.

“By dying?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yeah, by dying.”

The air hung heavy with my admission. Warden’s lips parted for a moment as they watched me, and then they pursed them tightly shut.

The lights dimmed, switching from the bright overhead fluorescents to low, slightly teal lighting coming from strips on the floor. The ship transformed to an approximation of nighttime — a common method to prevent a spaceship crew’s sense of time from warping. I looked around and took in the change.

“Mood lighting,” I joked. Warden did not appear to be in the mood for laughter.

“Why?”

I cocked my head to the side and gave them a puzzled look. “Why what?”

“Why do you have to be useful?”

I sighed and bit my lip as I tried to figure out how to put it into words. “The way I see it, we all owe something to the universe for our existence. We’ve got to make ourselves useful somehow. Make ourselves worth it. I figure, if I go out having taken more than I gave, that means I’ve failed.”

At length, Warden said, “Fuck that.” I raised an eyebrow. They continued, “Why should you owe the universe anything?”

“I’m here. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Warden considered this for a moment. They reached out to the tray sitting on the table and grabbed a hunk of bread — the last piece of food remaining, which neither of us had touched, as the amount the guard had given us was fairly generous. They held it out to me for a moment.

“Still hungry?”

I eyed them warily, and shook my head. They looked at the bread, tossed it up and down in their hand a few times, turned it around. Then they threw it at me.

It hit me right in the face. I yelped and flinched away from it. It fell, hitting my chest, then plopping into my lap.

“What the fuck Warden?” I cried.

“You owe me, Nav.”

“What?”

“I gave you that bread. That was mine, but I gave it to you, and you need to pay me back for it. You owe me.”

“What are you — I never asked for any fucking — “ I cut myself off with a hard, exasperated breath through my nose at the sight of Warden’s loaded glare. “Alright, point taken.”

I held the piece of bread in my hand, unsure what to do with it. Eventually, I made a decision, and tossed it right back at Warden, who easily caught it, and dropped it back onto the tray. I let myself fall onto my back so I was lying with my legs dangling off the edge of the cot. The bed wasn’t that wide, so my head lolled off the other side.

“I honestly figured you’d get what I meant more than most, what with everything between you and Dulcinea.”

“I didn’t do those things for any grand cosmic purpose, Nav,” they snorted, “I did it because I loved her. I wanted to spend my life with her. No chance of that anymore, I suppose.”

I propped myself up on my elbows to look at them. “You know, when Harrow was in that bubble, she brought a bunch of ghosts in with her without meaning to.” Warden sat up a little straighter, and I could see the nerd in them light up. “Dulcinea — _Dulcie_ — was there.”

Warden kept their face impressively neutral, though their reaction was evident in the slight strain in their voice. “And?”

“Not much to tell. She was sad, knowing that she wouldn’t get to meet you. And I don’t just mean Palamedes — she wished she could have met Camilla too.”

They looked down, and for a moment, it appeared as if they might cry. But instead, they met my eyes again and asked, “What did she look like?”

I grinned. “She looked like trouble.” Warden burst out laughing, louder and more free than I had ever heard them. I grinned. Their laughter was infectious, and I found myself chuckling a little bit too. “I mean, I don’t want to creep on your girl, but she was damn fine.”

As their laughter tapered, they said, “Ah, she was really something. I wish I could have met her.”

“Yeah. Me too, honestly.”

“Was she a failure, Nav?”

“I — what?” I stammered, taken aback.

“Dulcie was sick her entire life. Countless people spent time doing things for her, waiting on her, because she wasn’t strong enough to do them herself. I practically dedicated my entire life to her. She unquestionably took more than she gave. Does that mean she was a failure?”

“I, well, no, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t — it’s not — it’s _different._ _”_

“Why?”

“She wasn’t _able_ to give back.”

“So?” they countered. I stammered uselessly as I tried and failed to find something to say. I wasn’t certain that I had an answer to that question. My hesitance must have shown in my face, because Warden stood up and said, “Just… think about it.”

I nodded, then watched in confusion as they walked over to the door of the cell. They peered up the hallway, then down the hallway — as much as they could from behind the bars.

“What are you doing?”

“Did you notice that the Commander still thinks I’m Camilla Hect?”

“Uhh, yeah.”

“You know what Camilla wasn’t?” they asked, and then they put their hand on the door. “A necromancer.”

The door began to change. The pristine metal dulled, rust blooming across it. It corroded before my very eyes, as if it was aging dozens of years in a single second. The rust consumed it further and further, until the gate looked like it had been abandoned for centuries. Warden gave it a single, solid yank, and the brittle, degraded hinges broke off. They stepped to the side as the door fell to the ground with a clang, a cloud of rust flaking off it on impact.

I stared at them, slack jawed. “Could you have done that the whole time?” I demanded.

“Yes.”

“I — what — why — “

“I was waiting for the lights to change, so the guard shift would be lighter,” they explained, and started to walk through the now open doorway before hesitating for a moment. They shrugged, “Also, I wanted to get you to talk about that stuff. I’m pretty sure you needed it. Seriously, you and the Reverend Daughter are the most emotionally constipated people I’ve ever met.”

“Hey!” I protested. They stepped off to the side and gestured for me to go through.

“Shall we?”

* * *

Warden and I pressed ourselves back into a tiny alcove as a soldier strolled leisurely by. We were lucky to find it — the ship was so boxy and utilitarian, it was difficult to find places to hide away. We watched them stroll past; they must not have realized we were gone yet, since nobody seemed to be in a particular hurry.

As soon as they rounded the corner, I crept down the hallway in the other direction. I let Warden go ahead of me and take the lead. They knew the way back to the hangar, which I certainly didn’t. Turns out an eidetic memory is useful, who knew?

The hallway led out onto a catwalk at the top of an open room filled with machinery that rumbled and hissed out jets of steam. Footsteps approached from below. We pressed ourselves as far back as we could, trying to stay in the shadows at the top of the room. The catwalk was lit from below, so I just hoped they didn’t think to look up.

Commander Light walked through the door on one side of the room. Two more sets of footsteps approached from the other side, and two soldiers ran out. They met him in the middle, and breathlessly let him know that we had escaped.

Well shit.

We were close enough to hear them clearly. As the two of them finished letting him know the situation, he quietly considered it for a moment. When he spoke, he did not raise his voice. He remained level and cool. He did not shout or threaten. He did not need to. Only two words were needed, and both of them dripped with dreadful certainty.

“Lethal force.”

There was no blaring alarm — nothing that would have let us know we were rumbled if we hadn’t seen them. One of the soldiers merely spoke into a communicator on their shoulder as they walked out of the room. Light did not follow them, he just stood in the center of the room. He ran a hand over his shaved head, then reached to a holster tucked beneath his coat, on the back of his belt, and pulled out a pistol. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. Light removed the pistol’s magazine, examined it, then put it back in and readied the pistol. He sighed.

In one fluid movement he spun around to face us, raised his pistol, and fired.

I flung myself to the ground as a bullet pierced a pipe right behind my head. It spewed steam as I scrambled up and towards the exit, ducking my head as low as I could. We bolted into the hallway that continued from the other side of the catwalk. A shot rang out from behind us. I glanced over my shoulder to see one of the soldiers that had just been talking to Light standing at the far end of the hallway behind us. They were too far away to get an accurate shot, and we sprinted forwards. The other soldier that had been with him rounded the corner at the end of the hallway as we approached it.

We ducked through a doorway into a room beside us. The autodoor slid closed behind us, and Warden pressed a hand to the mechanism. The metal casing corroded and decayed, and within seconds, the wiring within sparked and died. The door juddered as the soldier approached the other side, but did not open.

There was another door on the other side of the room, and we ran through it. “What now?” I panted.

“We’re not far from the hangar.” The door led out into a short hallway that formed a T-intersection with a longer one, and we sprinted into the intersection.

With a deafening crack, Warden’s head snapped back, and blood sprayed out as the bullet punched it’s way out of the back of their skull. They slumped motionless to the ground.

“Shit!” I flung myself back out of the intersection and into the shorter hallway. Warden laid in a growing pool of their own blood. They did not get up. I ran back to the room we just came from. There was no other way out. I could hear somebody on the other side of the jammed door working to get it open. Footsteps grew closer as the soldier that shot Warden approached. I pressed myself to the wall beside the door, and glanced around.

The soldier rounded the corner into the hallway. I ducked my head back as they fired. I had no idea what to do. I had no weapon. I breathed quickly and psyched myself up to jump out and get in close quarters with them, maybe wrench their gun away. They grew closer.

I leapt around the corner, ready to attack, but they weren’t as close as I thought they were — there was no way I’d be able to stop them before they shot me.

Warden was standing right behind them, and as the soldier raised their gun, Warden placed a hand on the back of their head. The soldier’s eyes went wide. Their skin wrinkled. Their hair turned from dark brown to pure white. Their entire body shriveled and aged before me. By the time they died, they were a dried-up husk of a being, a horrifying ghoul with glassy eyes that bulged from their sockets. They collapsed to their knees, then flat on their face.

I stared at Warden with amazement. My jaw hung open. They were not entirely fine. Their head was still bleeding profusely, the hole in their temple still present. It was slowly closing itself up from the inside out, but not in the same way I had seen from the other Lyctors. It was not quick and immediately. It was slow, happening piece by piece.

They gave me a weird look. “What?”

They raised an eyebrow, “Did you seriously forget that I heal?”

“No!“ I protested, then grumbled “Maybe.” They snorted, then bent down, picked up the soldier’s rifle, and tossed it to me. I instinctively grabbed it. The hole in their head closed up more and more, until it was no longer pouring blood. Even as the skin finished healing over, there was still a white, star-shaped scar in the spot the bullet had hit them. I said, “But it’s not…”

“Not a normal Lyctor, remember? I don’t heal as quickly, or as completely. Now come on.” They gestured with their head, and I ran after them.

We emerged into a huge hangar bay filled with dozens of ships. It wasn’t the same hangar we had been pulled into, and I gave Warden a confused look.

“We don’t want _our_ ship, Nav,” they whispered, “we want something fast. A fighter.”

“But how did you know — “

“I’ve been on this ship before. I was working with them, remember?” I had not remembered that, but I didn’t say anything. We descended a spiral staircase from the upper catwalks down the ground floor. There was one small ship nearby — something streamlined, with a single, huge engine on the back and guns set into the side. The door was on the side, with a set of stairs that lowered to allow access. There was one person next to it, inspecting the engines. I noticed that they were wearing sunglasses; they must have been the same soldier that brought us our food earlier.

I looked around. They were the only guard nearby, but there were plenty of other people in the hangar. Rather than raising my rifle to fire it, I clutched it so the end was pointed over my shoulder and the butt was facing forwards, and snuck up behind them. I tapped them on the shoulder twice, and they spun around to face me.

I slammed the butt of the rifle into their throat. They stumbled back with a choked noise, clutching their neck. I adjusted my grip on the gun and wielded it like a bat, winding up and clocking them in the side of the head. The hit sent them sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

Warden grabbed that soldier’s rifle for themself, then ran past, climbing the stairs to the fighter’s door. They noticed I wasn’t following them, and gestured for me to come on. I ignored them, and squatted down next to the soldier on the floor. I pulled them out of the way of the ship’s engines, then rolled them over onto their front. I plucked the sunglasses off their face, and put them on my own. _Then_ I followed Warden, who rolled their eyes.

The stairs folded up and pulled up into the ship with a press of a button. The door sealed behind them. The hangar doors were open, a new ship entering, creating visible ripples as it passed through the air shield. Warden and I sat in the cockpit — I sat in the copilot’s seat, but I let them handle everything. I was no pilot, and they were.

The engines ignited, and the whole ship rumbled with power. The other people milling about the hangar took notice. I heard muffled shouting start up, and people ran towards us. Warden’s lips quirked upward, and they slammed the throttle all the way forward.

The thruster flared, and my head slammed back against my chair as we exploded forward fast enough to make a missile weep with envy. We crossed the entire hangar and sliced through the air shield in under three seconds.

“Holy shit,” I strained through a body pressed flat against the seat like a pancake.

“That’s more like it,” Warden grinned dangerously. Their hands flicked across the controls as they located the Sixth’s stele and quickly latched on to it. My heart calmed a little as the intense force of acceleration let up and we slid into the stele pathway. I laughed manically, the adrenaline seeking an outlet.

“Alright, next stop’s the Sixth,” Warden said.

“And what’s our gameplan once we’re there?”

“Gameplan?” Warden turned to me, still grinning, “We’re going to meet my mother.”

* * *

Ianthe joined Teacher in the Mithraeum’s hangar. The Hermes was gone, but a number of smaller, simpler ships were still there, and he was standing next to the fastest one — a small, sleek fighter, light and aerodynamic to be able to maneuver in-atmo.

“You summoned me, Teacher?” She felt that familiar twinge of awkward discomfort as she came to stand before him — it was far too weird of a feeling to know that she was taller than God.

“Yes. I received a communication from Canaan house. Ianthe… it was Harrow. She was there.”

“What did the impostor want?” Ianthe said, voice steely.

Teacher shook his head, “No, Ianthe, it was _Harrow._ Or at least, she claimed to be.”

Ianthe’s lips parted. Hope flared in her chest. She said, “What happened?”

Teacher told her everything Harrow had told him. Ianthe listened with rapt attention as he laid out the situation. She fought to contain her hopes — it was still entirely possible that Harrow was dead, they had no way of knowing if it was her, or an impostor. Still, she could not keep the excitement from her voice when she said,

“You need me to retrieve her?”

He looked at her sadly, and shook his head. “What I am about to ask is unfair of me, perhaps. But I do not ask it of you lightly.”

“Yes?” Ianthe prompted trepidatiously.

“Ianthe… we cannot take the chance that Harrow might still be an impostor. It’s far too great a risk to accept.”

Ianthe paused.

“Are you asking me to kill her, Lord?”

“I am,” he said softly.

Ianthe met the Emperor’s gaze for a moment without responding. She looked God in the eye as he told her to kill the only person that might give her companionship through the heaviness of eternity. There was sadness in his eyes, but no hesitation, or remorse.

She nodded, once.

“I will do what I must.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, about the sign language thing: I like the idea that learning sign language is just a normal thing in this universe. People are brought up knowing a standardized spoken language, and a standardized sign language.
> 
> As for Warden's powers, we don't know much about what Sixth House magic can do in canon, other than their ability to discern information about an object's history. I picture Sixth House magic as being basically time magic, so when used in an offensive capacity...


End file.
